


What’s Going On

by lemonadeandrice



Category: IT - Stephen King, Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crossover, Drugs, Emotional Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Medical Trauma, Physical Abuse, Racism, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonadeandrice/pseuds/lemonadeandrice
Summary: A group of people around the world are suddenly linked mentally, and must find a way to survive being hunted by those who see them as a threat to the world's order.





	1. Part I: The Birth

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Losers club/Sense8 crossover made for @shitty-water on Tumblr!! I follow the episodes fairly closely so this will keep going until the show (sense8) ends. I hope you like it!!

A streetlight blinked over the icing asphalt street, the March winter sun having set below the mountains hours ago. The road was empty, except for a skittering of feral cats every now and then, chasing a rabbit down through the brush. There remained a cool, unsettling silence that didn't seem to want to break, even the normal sounds of birds amongst the brittle bones of the trees were absent, something having frightened them back into their nests.

In the burned out remains of a house just off the drag, a woman screamed. The cry was riddled with pain, echoing up and down the street, the sound cutting through the quiet with ear-splitting volume.

Down under two stories of rotted wood, charred kitchen appliances, and the skeletal remains of rats and squirrels, a woman, dark-haired, maybe early forties, writhed in agony on the freezing concrete floor of what once was a basement. She was struggling to take off the belt strapped over her dress, fingers shaking as throw after throw of cramping struck her body. The dress was filthy, what used to be a cream-colored summer dress was now smudged in constant dirt and mud, blood staining the hem of its left side, grass stains where it hit her knees. She finally loosened the belt, slipping it out from under her as another convulsion shook her whole body. She shoved the belt between her teeth quickly, stifling the scream that built there.

It was too soon, too soon, she thought, and she was alone. She didn't want to be alone when it happened, he had promised to stay with her through it all. But they had been caught up with around Augusta, and he had been lost in the crowd, her screaming, "Danny! Danny!" but he was swallowed up by the panic. She could no longer see him over the heads of the screaming people, the echoing ricochets of bullets sounding all around her. So she had run. She couldn't find him anymore when she listened for him, searched for him, but he wasn't dead. No, she would have known the moment it happened. Whoever had him put him on Blockers.

And now here she was, in the basement of some skeleton of a house in somewhere-fucking-Maine, and they were coming.

She hadn't expected it to hurt so much, but it was as if she was really giving birth, her belly not swollen with a growing, living human. It felt as if the ligaments of her abdomen were being stretched and cut one-by-one, the vertebrae of her spine buckling as she slammed her back into the floor.

She was shivering uncontrollably, both from the cold and the raw pain filling her stomach. She just wanted it to end, for them to come and it be over.

She couldn't stay here long, she knew that. But who knew how long this would go. There would be eight of them. Danny hadn't explained it all to her before they had decided to go for it, and he wasn't here now to help her through the thick of it.

It was too late to turn back now.

The next contraction filled every cell in her body, it threw her bucking up off the floor, her hands pulling her hair from the root, the belt indented now with the marks of her molars. There was a mad flooding sensation and their faces filled her mind, all of them, and they saw her too.

A boy, tall and skinny, his spiral blond hair falling in ringlets over his eyes. He was leaving the temple, pulling the robin's egg blue kippah from his head. He caught her eye, standing on the street corner opposite him. She smiled and he collapsed, tearing a hole in his freshly pressed khaki pants.

Another boy, this one even taller than the first, midnight black locks stuck to his glasses with sweat, shirtless and dancing to some heavily bassed music which burned the eardrum. He looked at her, confusion taking over his face.

A third boy, leaning over a small marble headstone, running his fingers over the name written there. _George_. He heard her behind him and turned, gasping and stumbling back into the grave, his feet slipping on wet grass. He was alone, but a maintenance worker saw him collapse and rushed over to him.

A girl, her only girl, hair like the dying leaves of the aspens, falling to the floor after being backhanded by a man. Her husband. She reached out her hand for the girl, whose eyes rolled back in her head as she fainted into the plush white carpet.

Another boy, midnight-skinned, raised a hand to cover the sun from his eyes, a shovel in hand. He saw her far out between the corn stalks, her image fading in and out as the wind whipped them, like a mirage. He tried to call out to his father, but he was already falling backwards onto the seat of his pants.

The next one was short, neatly parted hair, and he saw her as he stood at the counter of the pharmacy. He began to hyperventilate, grasping his hands for the freshly filled inhaler on the counter, the pharmacist calling his name, a brief echo, as he fell to the ground.

Another, a tall boy laying on a bench, lifting and pumping two-hundred and fifty pounds of raw iron over him. She stood at the end of the bench, smiling at him. He tried to sit up, but the bar became too heavy, his spotter grabbing hold of it to steady it from falling directly on his windpipe.

And...something was wrong. The eighth. Where were they? She could not see if they were a boy or a girl, she could not see their face. A far away ache took hold of her chest, and she sobbed through the pain. They were already gone. They didn't make it.

And like that, it was over.

But the pain was immense, and even as the contractions subsided, a deeper hurt bloomed in her ribcage. The images had overwhelmed her, she hadn't even seen the man standing over her, a gun in hand. She let her eyes focus, followed the angle of the barrel between her breasts, where a thick sticky stain of blood had appeared. She tried to take a breath, but her lungs would not work. She squinted at him as he kneeled next to her, the gun dangling between his legs. He was wearing a clean white suit, a burnt orange tie tucked into the jacket. He sighed morosely and pushed a strand of stick-like brown hair out of her eyes. She fell to the floor again, breath catching.

He spoke to her, his voice eerie and distant. "Only seven. You could only give birth to seven of them." He waved the gun. "I suppose I caught you just in time."

His hair was brushed just so, an auburn color, and he ran his fingers through it as he watched her twitch on the floor. She had looked away, looked anywhere but at him, so as to not reveal their locations. She had to keep them safe. She had to keep her only children safe.

"We have Danny," the man's voice said, but it was merely a shadow to her now. She was fading away. "He'll help us where you would not." He made a sound between a laugh and a sigh and reached out to turn her face to him.

Her brown eyes were staring off into the void, and she was already gone.

It was March 7th.


	2. Part II: Limbic Resonance

**Derry, Maine**

The floor was damp, beginning to slick over with a thin layer of ice. She lay in a crumpled pile like a broken marionette doll, her strings having all been cut. Blood dripped unceremoniously onto the dirt-covered concrete, a small pool gathered there.

His feet crunched over broken glass and soggy wooden boards, his hands out in front of him. His heart pounded amongst his ribs. He could almost touch her, his hand coming to nearly cup her cheek, her empty brown eyes staring at the stars through a hole in the ceiling. It was as he crouched next to her, knees popping slightly, that her eyes snapped forward, catching his and he gasped and -

Bill Denbrough jumped awake.

He lay curled up in his bed, a quick sweat drawing on his brow. He was at home, in Derry. It was only a nightmare. A bitter breeze flowed in through the window, bringing his skin to gooseflesh and he shivered, pulling himself out of bed. His head was pounding, a strict pulsing in his temples. This headache had been raging on for days and no amount of medicine could seem to get rid of it. He shifted the window down, cutting off the smell of snow from the outside. Turning to the room, his eyes fell on Audra, sleeping peacefully next to where his blankets lay messed. Home, they were home.

But the dream, it lingered. Everything about it seemed so familiar, the sound of wind pulling through the hollow cavern, the smell of mildew growing on walls, the broken slippery concrete and...her. The woman. He had never seen her before, he was sure of that. But it felt as though he had known her all his life. As if they were old friends. But friends wasn't the right word, the word he wanted to use was...mother.

In the street there was the sudden roaring of engines and tires, the thick foggy sound of exhaust and burning diesel. The sound ripped through his skull, throbbing against the bone. He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to draw the pain away. It didn't work.

He turned to the window, squinting out through the frost beginning to grow there. It sounded as though the engines were right below the house, but he couldn't see anything. He slipped on a robe, tying the belt around his waist loosely, sliding on Audra's slippers.

The screaming rumbling grew steadily louder as he moved downstairs, covering one of his ears with his hand. Cold had seeped into the floorboards and shook his bones as he went to the door, the blaring engines also mixed with the sound of angry metal music, shaking the door as he wrapped his hand around its handle.

He swung the door open, fuming and -

The street was empty. The sounds of engines and music were gone and all that remained was empty asphalt and the resonating pulse of his migraine.

**Dortmund, Germany**

The smoke of hot exhaust on the freezing city street filled the air, a thick fog resting at the shins. There were cars lined up the sides of the narrow path behind two Lamborghinis - a black one and a red one. Accept swelled in the square, blasting out of rolled down windows.

Richie Tozier gripped the steering wheel of the black car, his heart racing. He could barely feel the persisting migraine that had taken hold of him the last few days over the bass in his chest. He looked to his left out past the middle of the street, staring down his glasses at the driver opposite him. The man had a sleek shaved head and dark eyes, glaring him down with an excited anger, a smirk taking to his lips.

"Alles klar?" He shouted over the booming music and Richie nodded. He turned to the road again and squeezed his fingers down around the wheel, knuckles white.

A long narrow road lay out before them, barely enough space for the two cars. About 800 meters out there was a strict left turn which dragged up on the sidewalk and out past open fields, this sleepy town just on the outskirts of Dortmund.

His opponent revved the engine of his car, a teasing sound. Richie shifted in his seat, breathing in hard through his nose to steady himself. One of his hands rested on the gear shift, ready to pull. He shook his head to try and dissipate the pain. He needed to focus. Peter had 850 Euros on this race.

A woman in a fur jacket and leather pants stood in between the two cars, her face pinched around a cigarette. She held a pair of lacy white panties in her hand and she winked at him. He pursed his lips at her in a kiss and ran his tongue over his top lip. She shook her head, taking a drag off of her cigarette and held the panties aloft.

He stared straight ahead now, watching her hand from the corner of his eye. She was shouting something - counting no doubt, and he quickly jammed the gear into first, foot holding the clutch.

When she dropped the white flag - he ripped his foot from the clutch and pumped the car, hitting sixty-five kilometers per hour within a matter of seconds. He could see the red Lambo in his peripheral, nose to nose as he jumped into second, quickly drawing the car up even faster. Wind was pouring into the car, cold and whipping his black hair as he drove, his speed climbing to 100, 115, 130 kilometers per hour, the red streak pulling up on him until they were practically on top of one another, metal scraping on metal. Richie didn't care - the car was stolen.

The curve was nearly upon them, he was in third now, but he needed to switch down into second, just until the turn was behind them. As they came to it, the other driver cursing inaudibly at him, he threw down into second, feet on clutch and smashing the gas pedal into the floor, he turned the wheel sharply and kicked the clutch. The car skidded smoothly across the stonetop road, pulling to the right and facing the car left, where he pushed forward, the red Lamborghini getting caught up behind him.

Ahead the road was flat dirt, a straight grey line under a waxing moon. Richie turned in his seat as he maintained speed, looking to see the other driver falling fifty paces behind him. He laughed wildly, jumping in his seat and whooping before turning back to the front.

A dark haired woman stood dead center in the road, a grungy cream sundress covering her body like a film.

"Shit!" Richie cried and jerked the wheel hard to the right to miss her, and the front left tire hit a pothole, taking the car airborne.

It flipped twice in the air, Richie's hands pressed to the ceiling as shock coursed through him, screaming obscenities and bracing himself. The jet black sports car came back to earth with a sickening crash and toppled over once, twice, three times more before sliding into a tree and coming to a stop.

Richie was upside down, and he coughed trying to clear the dirt from his mouth. Nothing felt immediately out of place, he noticed thankfully, and tried to gain his bearings. The radio had blacked out after its initial crash into the ground and he could hear yelling over the ringing in his ears. He hadn't been wearing his seatbelt and felt stupid for not having done so regardless of the fact that he wasn't thrown from the car.

"Richie!" He heard his name called. Peter.

He pulled himself out from behind the smashed in steering wheel, falling down onto the remnants of the windshield and jagged metal. His name was called again and he dragged himself towards the window facing the town, people running towards him.

"Rich! Richie? Richie!" Peter cried as he approached. His breath came out in puffs of smoke and he knelt beside the heap of the car, taking Richie's hand in his and pulling. Glass grinded against his back and he winced but the pain was not immense. As Peter dragged him from the car, his competitor - Jonas, he believed - came up too.

"Jesus man, are you fucking okay?" He patted Richie on the shoulder as he brought himself to his full height, stretching. He tasted blood on his lip and couldn't see out of the right lens of his glasses. He pulled them off and held them to the moonlight, squinting. The lens was shattered but the frame was intact. He couldn't help but laugh, the sound rippling through his chest. Peter and Jonas looked at each other uncomfortably and shifted in their shoes, shivering.

"Rich, are you ok?" Peter asked quietly.

Richie placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and laughed hard one more time. He looked from Peter to Jonas and sighed.

"So did I win?"

**McLouth, Kansas**

Sunlight poured in through the kitchen window, Mike Hanlon gripping the edge of the counter and staring blankly outside. There were patches of snow blanketing the yellowed grass, a cold breeze rippling through them. April was on its way but winter had not completely left them yet. He worried that the snow would not be gone enough in time to break dirt, and they would be late on the harvest in the fall.

He jumped at the sound of his mother coming into the kitchen, heart panting wildly for a moment.

"You okay, Mikey?" She asked, stepping up next to him.

If he was being honest with himself, no. The last few nights he had been plagued with terrible nightmares, nightmares of a woman being murdered in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it. It was so real, he thought, the rigid feeling of icy concrete under his feet, the echoing tantrum of a gunshot, pomegranate red blood in a pool on the floor, hot with steam rising above it. This woman, whoever she was, was gone, definitely, but would always look at him, eyes snapping to attention and he would scream and wake up in a cold sweat, his head throbbing.

"Yea, ma," he said, turning to her. "Just tired."

"Still having nightmares?" She asked.

He had mentioned it to her the first night when he had awoken her in his terror in the middle of the night.

He lied and shook his head.

She looked at him sadly and rubbed his arm. "You need a day off today? Dad still thinks the ground is too frozen to start, anyway."

He shrugged. "I can run some errands, if you need?"

She smiled sweetly at him. "No, why don't you go just run around town. See what your friends are doing."

He grinned and took her into a hug, taller than her by a good six inches. "Thanks mom." He said and she squeezed his middle.

"Go on, get out of here." She said, pushing him gently away and pointing towards the door. He chuckled and grabbed up his Carhartt from the hook, gave her a quick wave and loaded into the pickup.

The drive to town was only five or ten minutes, the gravel road jostling his tires a little. He turned left, towards the city.

It was a small town, only about 800 people and it was all he had ever known. He didn't go to college after high school, 25 now, and instead helped his parents out on the farm. He had received a scholarship from the school out in Manhattan and he'd wanted to go, maybe study agriculture or go to be a vet, but his father had got sick. The Big C. It wasn't extreme, but it had put a dent in their savings, and he could not stand knowing the farm might suffer while his dad recovered. So he'd stayed. And now here he still was.

His friends were on spring break he knew, only one or two of them were in town for the vacation and it was early enough in the morning still that they probably wouldn't even be awake yet. But he'd call them around ten or something.

He pulled up the stop sign that came into town, idling there as cars puttered past down the slow strip of highway that ran through town. He was looking ahead, the sky clear but gloomy.

He was suddenly shaken by the sound of something exploding against the side of his truck and he jumped turning to look. To the left was a small gas station, and not far off the street, standing under the pump's awning were three white boys wearing camouflage jackets. Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter, and Victor Criss. They were down a few people today, usually running in a group of six or seven but always with Henry.

Dark soapy streaks of Coke ran down the window, Henry shouting something he couldn't hear over the grumble of the exhaust. Mike assumed it was his favorite racial epithet and he looked away embarrassed. As the cars finally stopped passing, he gunned it down the road, leaving Henry and his asshole friends behind him. As he drove away, he didn't see Henry make a gun with his fingers and follow the sight with squinted eyes after him.

**London, United Kingdom**

The subway platform was packed with commuters, crammed together trying to make their afternoon trains. The din echoed through the tunnel as the sound of screeching brakes came up to the stop, the wave of people moving forward as others coursed out. Ben Hanscom held tight to his shoulder bag, staring blankly off into space. He had headphones on, a guilty pleasure boy band playing in his ears.

He had missed his initial exit and now had to wait three more stops to be dropped off at a closer location, his mind whirling. He had been thinking about a bridge when the intercom had called his stop - "We are now arriving at Amersham Station," - trying to think of the best dimensions to get a swaying action that could take on wind and rain without buckling. He had watched his stop pass by and it wasn't until the train came to a stop at the next that he realized he missed it. He cursed himself silently and shuffled his feet, sighing heavily.

He was so exhausted as of late, sleep coming to him difficulty and in the wee hours of the morning. He couldn't seem to get the pictures out of his head. Her face, clear as the woman standing in front of him now, swam in his head every night for the last week, quiet brown eyes and knotted hair of the same color. Her nose was small, like a buttoncap between her eyes, which were vacant. Cold. He could not stop seeing her life ripped from her, shattered in a heap on the floor. He could not stop seeing her sitting up and looking at him, arms outstretched, beckoning him forward. These dreams were like fevers to him, coming and going in hazy loops, and he would awake from them covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the gunshot still in his ears, head pounding. He felt like he was going crazy, if he was being honest with himself. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and overworking, always pored over blueprints and diagrams, a pencil or compass in hand.

He looked to the map above the sliding doors and heard something over his music. It sounded like...ice cubes clinking into a glass. Ice cubes in a glass?

He pulled off one side of his headphones and squinted around. There was the regular sound of the subway as it slid over its tracks, but the sound was definitely there. It was almost like it was happening right inside his head...

**Orleans, France**

Beverly Rogan dropped another ice cube into the Glencairn, the afternoon gloom of late winter shafting slightly into the room. She poured scotch over the ice, the watery liquor filling the glass halfway.

Tom was standing in the bathroom at the mirror, shaving cream lathered across his jaw.

"A day for celebration, yes dear. This sale will make us rich." He dragged a razor across the skin, pulling back a strip of cream with it, which he rinsed under the faucet. Beverly absently wished his hand would slip and rush the blade across his throat. She brought him the glass, holding it lightly in her fingers. He turned to her, face still foaming and smiled. It was a grim smile. She returned it, only halfhearted, and he took the glass.

"Nothing for you?" He said, his voice coy.

She knew that if she had poured herself a glass he would have slapped it out of her hand, screaming, "It's three in the afternoon! What are you thinking!" Maybe hit her in the face. Maybe punch her so hard in the stomach she'd be unable to walk.

She smiled. "I'll save the celebrating for tonight."

He nodded knowingly and turned back to the mirror. She leaned against the sink and rubbed her temple. The migraine still held a root there.

"You alright, Beverly?" Tom asked not looking away from the task at hand.

"Just a headache, love." She replied softly.

He set down the razor for a moment and turned to her, taking her face in his palm. She flinched slightly at the touch.

"I told you to take some medicine Beverly. It'll help. I promise."

Oh, his promises. What were they if not idle threats, held over her like an umbrella to catch all the shit that spilled down on top of her. I promise to keep you safe, I promise to help you make this sale, I promise if you keep using that tone you'll regret it, I promise you won't be able to walk for a week. Not always idle threats.

**Rosh Pinna, Israel**

The day was slowly warming up, the early morning sun peeking up to shine on Mount Kna'an.

The house was quiet, a small modest home with wood flooring and cool stone walls. Sunlight was coming up under the blinds, falling over his face.

Stanley Uris groaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the thin grey sheet up over his head. He didn't want to get up; it was his day off. He should probably do some readings or call his mother, but he just couldn't tell himself he would do those things today. His head was killing him and he just wanted to sleep more. But sleep would not come. He had one of those internal clocks that as soon as the sun hit the windowpane of his bedroom, he was wide awake.

He threw the blanket off of his bare legs and padded over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of khakis and a neat beige polo shirt. Tossing it on, he folded the collar down, feeling the evenness of the fabric with his fingertips. Perhaps he would go to the HaBaron Garden and read. Maybe that would help his headache.

Picking up his soft blue kippah, he went to the mirror and placed it carefully over his curly blond hair. It sat funny and he spent a moment trying to straighten it, frustration building. When it finally sat just so, he gathered up his bag and went out the door.

The cobbled path was familiar, one he had taken many times, the so-so patting of his clean brown loafers comforting. He studied the inside of his book, pages dull and soft as he read. He knew where he was going like it was ingrained in him - take a left, then a right, another right, four blocks to the left and he was at the park. He didn't mind the walk. It gave him time to clear his head on days when the asymmetry of the road was too much or if he couldn't remember if he'd shut the lights off in his bedroom.

As he turned the first left something strange happened. The sounds of his shoes were quieted, as if walking on grass or carpet. It took him a moment to notice it and he looked up, panic striking him. He wasn't in Rosh Pinna anymore - at least, it didn't look like it. The air was bitter cold, snow rising over the hills and falling from the sky. Stan could see it all, touch it, feel the cold wind as hit his face, his breath a thick fog. But his body was warm, wrapped up in what felt like a thick winter coat with fur around the hood. His breathing came quicker as his mind struggled to make sense of this - whatever this was. Six words pounded on repeat in his head like a hammer. He was not in Rosh Pinna, he was not in Rosh Pinna, HE WAS NOT IN ROSH PIN-

**Toronto, Ontario**

The door to the pharmacy swung open, bringing in with it the last blizzard of the season, Eddie Kaspbrak stomping the snow off his boots. A little bell chimed overhead, and he pulled the hood of his coat down off his head. His mother had warned him not to go out in the snow, he was delicate, and if he caught a chill he could catch a cold and if he caught a cold he could get pneumonia and what about pneumonia oh don't get Sonia Kaspbrak started on pneumonia! He walked towards the counter of the modest little clinic to pick up his regular prescriptions and maybe, Christ he hoped, something that would knock this headache out. The strongest thing they had.

He hadn't brought the migraine up to his mother, God no. He would have been dragged kicking and screaming to the hospital to await a myriad of blood draws, CAT scans, electrodes stuck to different parts of his body connected to one central pumping machine. No, he couldn't have that.

The man in a clean white jacket waved at him as he approached, unzipping his coat quickly to let it breathe. The man - Dr. Keene - went around the counter into a stack of shelves filled with small medicine bottles. Eddie let his forearms rest on the counter and he rubbed both sides of his head, trying to alleviate the tension. He heard Keene come to the counter, "You alright, Eddie?"

He looked up and was nearly knocked flat on his back. It wasn't Dr. Keene's wrinkle-driven tan face staring back at him - it was a young man, tall, thin, with undereye bags and slightly red dirt colored hair. Behind him wasn't the pharmacy medicine cabinet but instead a spreading out bathroom, the door open to show an unmade bed in the next room.

"Jesus Christ!" Eddie screamed as he toppled backwards. His eyes squeezed shut as he hit the ground and when he opened them, Dr. Keene was leaning over the counter, concerned.

"Goodness, Eddie, are you alright?" His voice wavered.

Eddie looked around frantically, patting his coat pockets for his inhaler. _What the fuck was that_? He found the inhaler in the breast pocket and fumbled to pull the cap off and shove it into his mouth, taking a deep breath as the medicine hit the back of his throat. _What in the actual fuck was that_?

He made eye contact with Keene, breath coming in pants. "Nothing, I - I..." He paused. "Nothing, just not been getting a lot of sleep, I guess." He rubbed his eyes, as if to emphasize the point, though it was mostly to clear his vision.

"I'll uh, I'll get the prescriptions later," he said hurriedly and pulled himself up off the ground, not hearing Keene's cries as he left, not even bothering to zip his jacket up as he left, the wet snow punching him in the stomach. It felt like he couldn't catch his breath, rapid in and out in and out in and out.

"What the _fuck_ was that!" Eddie screamed to the howling wind.


	3. Part II: Limbic Resonance Continued

Bill splashed cold water on his face, bringing his trembling hands up to smooth it down his cheekbones. He had seen that, he had definitely seen that.

It was so real, eerie. There was someone else looking back at him in the mirror not seconds ago. A man, maybe younger than him he couldn’t be sure - he’d had one of those faces where he could have been a teenager or someone in their mid-twenties - in a fluffy green coat and panicked brown eyes, a cool white pharmacy spread out behind him. And he’d heard something else, someone else, when all of this was happening. He couldn’t be sure but it seemed as if the voice was this guy’s, whoever he was, and...it seemed so familiar.

He brought a cupped handful of water under the running faucet again and let his face sit in it, holding his breath. All of this was overwhelming. First the woman at the cemetery, then the dreams, the random sounds, and now this.

“Bill, love,” Audra called from the bedroom. “Are you alright dear?”

He let the water fall back into the basin, running out the drain quickly. He took up a towel and patted his face dry. Audra came into the doorway, leaning her head against the doorjamb.

“Still the headaches?” She asked, her voice soft.

He raised his eyebrows and folded the handtowel over its rack again. “Amongst other things.” He replied.

She came into the bathroom fully and put her hands gingerly on his shoulders. “Like what?”

He rubbed her side with his right hand and smiled softly. “I’m not sure yet. Honestly I’m afraid if I tell you you’ll think I’m crazy.”

She chuckled. “When you told me you wanted to move to Derry to be closer to your family, that made me think you were crazy. I don’t think anything surprises me anymore.”

He shrugged.

She tried to search his eyes for a moment. “Did you see something again?”

He sighed and caught her eyes. Bluer than the depths of any ocean he’d ever seen. “Yes. I did.” He waited to see if she’d react poorly, perhaps recoil or furrow her brows, and when she didn’t, he continued.

“So I...I saw a man. Just now. When I looked in the mirror it wasn’t...me. It was someone else.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Did you recognize him?”

He pondered for a moment. “Yes and no. I have never seen him before but there was this...feeling. Like...we’d known each other a thousand years. He was frightened - I mean understandably when you look up and see someone you don’t know right there. But... I don’t know... it’s so hard to explain.”

She hugged him then, her thin arms folding around the back of his neck and he returned the gesture.

“Do you want to go to the doctor?” She asked softly.

He sighed again and pulled her back to see her from arm’s length. She was concerned, yes, but not angry or afraid. She was completely serious. She didn’t think this was a joke.

“Not yet,” he said. “Perhaps it is only stress. With the deadline coming up and the move, that may be it.

She grinned and planted a delicate kiss on his mouth and went back towards the bedroom. “Well then come to bed when you’re ready.”

He smirked and followed her, shutting the light off as he left the room.

  
The sun rose on April first to the song of the meadowlarks in the field. Mike had already been awake for a good hour or so, brushing his teeth and washing his face in the dim of the bathroom nightlight. His father had been stirring later, around 7:30, but Mike couldn’t get out of the early morning rise. He had made himself a slice of dry toast for breakfast and decided he would head out to the barn and check on the calf that had been born earlier in the week. It was so small and spindly his father had worried it wouldn’t live very long, so they’d set it and its mother up in the warm interior of the west barn, a huge red building that raked and swayed with every gust of wind.

He put on a long-sleeve shirt - it was still chilly this early in the morning - and poured himself a mug of black coffee, opening the door on the Kansas spring.

The trek to the barn wasn’t long, took maybe all of five or six minutes, but he decided he’d take his time. His headache was finally gone and he could actually enjoy the fresh air. The barn sat in the distance through a thin wispy layer of fog. He could hear the cow calling out to its calf from inside, and smiled to himself as he paused to take a sip of coffee. He heard, far away, a different sound. One he didn’t recognize. It overlapped with the cows for a moment and then was gone.

He squinted at the barn and trudged further through the grass. Was there someone in there with them? He hadn’t heard his father up yet, nor his mother. It grew louder as he got closer, an echoing. His heart had picked up slightly as he came up on the barn, the coffee rattling around his hand. The cows didn’t seem frightened, they were still milling about inside, calling to one another, the deep cry of the mother followed occasionally by the snuffling grunts of the calf.

He pressed his open hand to the wrenching handle of the barn door, a sliver of inside peering out at him. The air feeding out through the crack was almost...warm? Like the lick of a summer day.

Mike pulled the door open, careful not to spill his coffee over his pant leg. He made the space big enough for his body to slip into, and as he slid inside, he gasped, pressing himself into the door.

The space was no longer the tall raftered ceiling and straw-littered floor of the barn, instead, spread out before him were the ornate organs of a...church? It wasn’t a church he didn’t think. On the far wall high above what he assumed was the pulpit, which was surrounded by a bannister in a ‘U’ shape, was a stained-glass window, the Star of David lit bright with afternoon sun.

He was taken aback, his mouth having fallen open. The room was indeed warm, the feeling of a nearly desert heat rolling over him, but it was almost soothing, homey. He began down the aisle, turning in a circle as he went, soaking it all in.

The walls were made with cream and sand colored bricks, at least 150 one-by-two foot stones stacked on top of one another. There was a rounded dome tall over the pulpit and nearly a hundred pews, lined up in neat symmetric fashion, and Mike nearly toppled over into one on the right side, sitting down, his eyes wide and a smile burning on his face. What was this?

“Excuse me?” A voice from his left said, and it snapped Mike out of his awe. Sitting in the pew directly opposite him was a man, maybe around his age, sharp nose and glittering brown eyes, a notebook open in his lap. He was wearing clean khakis and a tucked in striped polo, its collar pressed down like he had ironed it.

Mike was struck by him.

“H-hello,” He said, trying to hide the smile on his mouth.

The man looked around, trying to place him. Mike set the coffee mug on the pew beside him, rolling his sleeves up. He couldn’t take his eyes off him, his hair curly under the yarmulke, small careful ringlets that looked so natural. He was, in all reality, a beautiful man. The thought of it made him blush.

“You aren’t wearing your kippah.” The man said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mike squinted at him. “Kippah?” The word sounded foreign on his tongue.

The man pointed at his yarmulke, a small smile. “Kippah.”

Mike’s hand went to the top of his head, indeed confirming there was nothing there. “Oh!” He turned in his seat looking around the room for perhaps, an extra? He wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry,” he replied hoarsely. “I don’t have one.”

The man smiled down at his notebook, folding it closed on itself. Mike noticed he was blushing. “There are some by the door. Have you never been to temple before?”

Mike looked around once more, soaking in the designs on the ceiling and the brightness of the day outside through the stained glass windows which he now saw encased the top of the walls. Temple. He was in a temple. But how did he get here?

“I haven’t. Where is this place?” He tried to remain quiet. He’d always had this feeling that churches were like libraries and you weren’t supposed to bring your voice above a whisper. Supposed to? Allowed to.

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment. “We’re outside Rosh Pinna.”

Mike’s face must have read confusion because the man sighed and stood, dusting imaginary dirt from his shirt. “Rosh Pinna. Israel.”

He felt like should stand as well, so he did, leaving his mug in its spot on the pew. His heart had begun to thump wildly in his chest again. Israel? He must be dreaming. But how? How could he dream of this place he’d never seen outside of books and the news, or this guy, this man, this handsome man, no, this man he had never seen. But he was drawn to him? He felt...safe with him.

“Israel,” He said, more to himself than this other person. He wished he had a name to put to his face so he didn’t just continue to refer to him as “this man” in his head.

He had taken a step towards Mike, tentatively, nervously. “Where are you from?”

Mike turned his eyes down to catch the other’s. “K-Kansas.” His voice shook slightly.

The man raised his eyebrows, a bouncing ringlet falling into his eyes. He brushed it out of the way quickly. He was studying Mike now, taking in his attire and features. He felt self-conscious suddenly.

“Kansas?” He repeated and Mike nodded.

He gave off a soft gasp. “Kansas, in the States?”

He nodded. “What’s your name?” He asked him.

Something crashed behind him and he turned to look, the barn behind him again. When he faced front, he came nose to nose with the mother cow, the one his own mother had named Abilene, who was chewing softly on her cud.

He spun quickly, his feet kicking up dust and straw, but the vision was gone. He was home again.

He ran a hand over his hair, the pounding heartbeat starting to subside. He let his hand fall to his chest, a smile taking over. He laughed gently.

Israel. He was in Israel.

  
Richie lit a cigarette, leaning one leg propped up against the brick wall. He had earbuds plugged in, drowning out the sounds of the city street with the loud screaming sounds of Rammstein. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, the screen splattered spiderweb fashion.

Peter: Kunststraße 24.

He pushed the phone back into his pocket, ashing the cigarette on the concrete and heading in the direction of Kunststraße. He was wearing sunglasses today, name brand Ray-Bans he had lifted from the inside coat pocket of an American “hipster” type who had been screwing around the business district early January. His glasses were still shattered from the wreck and he hadn’t had time to get them replaced. So contacts would have to work for now.

He pulled around the first corner, hands in pockets. A young woman was talking into her phone walking towards him, wearing a tight pair of jeans and a bright yellow blouse. As she passed, he turned to watch her go, whistling to himself as he took in the shape of her ass. He turned to face front again, the cigarette dangling between his teeth.

The music was blaring in his ears, covered in the long curling strands of his hair. The day was perfect, if he had to decide. The sun was beginning to warm up and spring was well on its way, tiny poking blooms of flowers starting to reel their heads out of the dirt on the sides of the street. He was going to get his portion of the winnings from the race, beautiful people were out doing their daily errands, stripping their layers, showing more skin.

Richie didn’t mind it. Anyone who wanted to take their clothes off was fine by him.

Over the pounding beat of _Du_ _hast_ , there was the subtle crunching sound of static. As he walked, he fiddled with the wire of one of the earbuds, trying to see if that would help it at all. It almost seemed to make it worse. He threw his cigarette down and paused in the middle of the sidewalk, exhaling smoke, pulling the buds out with a building frustration. But even without the music directly pulsing against his eardrums, the static was there. He shoved a pinky into the left ear, trying to clear out anything that could have got in the way. No change.

  
The white noise soothed him. He’d pulled the heavy headphones over his ears to fall asleep late last night and miraculously, they were still placed fully on his head. But he was awake now.

Eddie lay stock still on his back, cocooned under a pile of blankets with three pillows propped under his head. He was cozy, completely content with staying in this position right here all day. But it wasn’t the fact that he had things to do today that had awoken him. No.

It was his mother.

She had started pounding on the door about 7:35, her voice gentle and probing. “Eddie-bear, it’s time to wake up.”

By 7:45 it had become panicked. “Eddie, are you okay? It’s time to get up dear.”

It was now 8 am and he could see the doorknob rattling in its cage, her trying to shake the lock undone. He was sure she was crying a little now, “Eddie please, please, wake up dear. Mommy wants to come in, Eddie PLEASE!” She was alternating between shaking the doorknob and slamming her meaty fist against the flat solid wood of the door.

He rolled his eyes and pulled the headphones off, throwing the covers from his legs and padding to the door, his pinstriped pajamas clinging to his chest and legs. He swung the door open and nearly came to be clocked by his mother, a large woman, who stumbled forward a little as the door swung inward.

She was panting, and he couldn’t be sure if that was due to her panic or sheer weight. She clutched the dangling necklace hanging from her throat and straightened to her full height of 175 centimeters. She towered over him, which struck him as odd. He hadn’t known his father much, he had died when he was young, maybe three or four, but he’d never seemed short. So where the hell did he get it from?

“Yes mother?” He said, his voice already exhausted. He was sure she was going to remind him to take his medicine or see if he had a fever or felt ill from the walk in the snow. As if she hadn’t fawned over him for the last week about all of that.

She peered at him over half-moon glasses, her face not angry but convincingly worried. She wanted to lash out but she had to keep her cool. “Eddie-bear, it’s so late. Are you feeling alright? You slept so long today.” She reached out her hand towards his forehead and he pulled back, letting her recoil in on herself.

He was trying not to glare at her. She was his mother, whether he liked it or not. “I’m fine mom, I just wanted to sleep in today. I have nothing to do and just wanted to rest.”

“Rest?” Shit. Wrong choice of words. “Why do you need rest? Are you tired? Have a headache?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I just want to relax for one day.”

She looked pained, as if he had offended her. But honestly, he didn’t care. He’d been so wrapped up in his own head the last few weeks - since his birthday - that he just...what did he want? Probably just to lay around.

He couldn’t stop picturing all of these visions, if that was what he wanted to call him. And the thought of it all made him want to take a hit off his inhaler, four aspirin, a shot of gin, and lay in bed for weeks. First the woman, then the tall boy in the bathroom. He’d been hearing things too. Far away sounds of cars that weren’t there, the sounds of a cafe when he was in his own kitchen, moaning through his headphones. They frightened him. He was starting to worry he was growing a tumor in his brain and it was killing him. And today, he just wanted to try to pretend none of it was happening.

He’d told himself if it started to get worse, he’d go to the doctor. But he couldn’t tell his mother. She’d make him go. And he’d never leave his hospital bed.

“Please, mom,” he tried to console her, to bring her back down. “I’m just fine, I promise. I took my medicine already. I just want to catch up on sleep. I’ve been working a lot lately.” It was not necessarily the truth or a lie, but her face softened so it was good enough for him.

She nodded hesitantly and began down the hallway, throwing quickly a glance over her shoulder. He lifted his hand in a wave and closed the door with a quiet click.

He threw himself on the bed, face smothered in the blankets. He could have sworn he heard something, ticking in the back of his mind, and he covered his ears, hoping that would block it out.

  
Beverly took a quick drag off of her Gauloises, holding it swift between her thumb and forefinger. She was sitting at McEwan’s, six blocks from her top floor apartment. She felt dangerous doing this here, practically right under the nose of Tom, but it was her own personal rebellion.

“You smell like trash when you smoke,” He once told her, but that hadn’t stopped her from doing it. In fact, she did it more now as if to spite him. But she’d admittedly spritz herself with perfume or take a shower after, tossing her clothes in the washer to staunch the smell. He was a mean man, much like her father.

He was in one of his moods today; he always got this way around the first of the month, like clockwork or menstruation. She’d thought perhaps after the Tokyo sale that he’d ease up a little, let her relax, but that hadn’t been much of the case.

That very same evening, the evening the headache had finally started to fade, she’d dropped a piece of lettuce from their salad on her lap, staining her white cocktail dress with balsamic vinegar. She cursed silently and tried to dab at it with the cloth napkin at her plate side. He’d practically thrown down his fork, a piece of ribeye clattering onto the tablecloth.

“Christ, Beverly, I didn’t spend 500 Euros on cloth napkins for you to not use them!” He’d slammed his fists on the table, chattering the crystal glasses filled with champagne and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezing. He hadn’t hit her that night, however, he had waited at least two days before he did that. She couldn’t even really recall what had set him off that night. The reasons blurred together after months and months of them being together.

She pulled the front cover over on its back binding, squinting at the small print. She had a queer feeling that someone was watching her, somewhere from inside the cafe perhaps. But she couldn’t see anyone when she had checked earlier.

She couldn’t concentrate on the page, the words a frenzy of smudges and static. She set the book down on the table with a huff, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. The feeling was stronger now, bringing the hairs on the back of her neck to a standstill. She looked around cautiously. The other patrons were minding their own business, eating biscuits or drinking coffee, whispering amongst themselves. She was only imagining things.

She tried to relax, slouching in her seat, her eyes watching the road. On the street corner, a young man wearing brown corduroys and clutching tightly to his leather shoulder bag was going to cross the street.

  
Stan looked both ways once, twice, three times, and crossed the road, his hair free to be flung about by the wind. He couldn’t get the kippah to sit correctly after leaving the temple, so he’d decided not to wear it at all. It filled him with guilt.

But he’d been wracked with guilt for hours now, after the scene amongst the pews. He hadn’t been studying or praying, just sitting really, letting the quiet solitude of the inside wash over him, breathing it in deeply, soothing him. When all of a sudden he heard the clunking of heavy boot falls on the floor and turned, only somewhat frightened, to see a man. But, he had never seen this man before. Dark-skinned, like the color of raw leather, wearing a long-sleeved knit shirt and mud-stained jeans. It was already warm enough to be wearing short sleeves and it struck him as odd that he was dressed this way. And the pants! Every fiber of him was screaming, “Clean your pants! You can’t come into the temple like that!”

But he’d observed him mutely, as he turned in on himself, staring with glittering eyes at the inside of the temple. Stan followed his gaze for a moment, too taking in the entirety of the place. It was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

It took him a moment to collect himself, and it was only when he noticed he wasn’t wearing a kippah that he spoke up. The man’s reply waved over him like an aura and he could feel the baritones of his voice in his bones. He wanted to ask his name, but almost as quickly as he was there, he was gone, like a clap of lightening on a June evening. And with his presence no longer there, Stanley felt an emptiness and a heaving breathlessness in his chest that he had tried to suppress for many years - desire. It made him feel ill, and he’d left the temple, disgusted with himself, and torn the kippah off in regret. Let God not look on him now.

  
Mike walked into the library, hands wringing, and he nodded at Ann, the surly bag of a woman who sat behind the front desk. He went past her towards the back, where the computers were housed. He quickly scribbled his name on the check-in sheet, even though he was the only one there, and sat down at one of the early millennium desktops, pulled up Chrome.

With trembling fingers he typed into the search bar, _Rosh Pina, Israel_. With a strike of the enter key, the screen went blank. He sighed and crossed his arms. The internet was still practically dial-up. After a minute or two, Google pulled up a long thread of links, images, and PDFs. He clicked through the images, carefully examining each one.

When he’d been inside the temple, he’d felt as if he had stumbled upon some familiar memory, and yet...now, the memory had faded, like a distant dream. And that man... there were no words he could use to describe how he was feeling. He wanted to see him again, find out his name, but... what if none of it was real?

He clicked on a picture that seemed all too familiar, cream and sand colored bricks and blue and green stained glass windows. His heart leaped into his throat.

It was _the_ temple.

It was real.

  
Dusk was beginning to fall over the city like a blanket of snow, wrapping the apartment building up in a sedated sleepy twilight. Ben stirred a pot of pasta on the stove, glancing occasionally to watch Game of Thrones on the television. It was finally the Red Wedding episode - he had seen it before but was rewatching for lack of anything else on. The theme was playing and he hummed along to it without thinking.

  
Richie looked around the smoke-filled room, the theme song to Game of Thrones echoing in his ears like he was in an endless cavern. Peter was taking a hit off a hand-rolled blunt, pinched between two fingers.

“Do you hear that?” He asked and Peter squinted at him.

“Hear what?”

  
The pasta had come to a boil, thick fat bubbles popping and roiling over the surface of the water. He brought out a plate from the cabinet and set it on the counter. He had let the spaghetti sauce simmer for a few minutes, but stirred it with a splintered wooden spoon just to be safe.

  
Sniffing the air from the study, Bill furrowed his brows. “Italian for dinner, Aud?”

  
The noodles were ready, at least by his mother’s standards, and Ben plopped them onto the plate, turning the knob on the stovetop to ‘off’. He grasped the plastic handle of the saucepan and poured it carefully over the noodles, slathering them in the thick red viscous.

He took the plate and a pint of lager to the couch, sitting down and throwing his feet up on the coffee table. He sighed into the cushions and returned his focus to the television.

It was when he took the third heaping mouthful that he felt something different about the room. The air had shifted and there was the sudden overwhelming sensation that he was not alone. His arms rose in gooseflesh and he set the plate on the coffee table slowly, pulling his legs back down into a sitting position. He looked to his left, only to find the front door to the flat and entrance to the bedroom completely the same.

So he turned to the right, a sweat drawing on his forehead. At the window, looking out, with hands pressed against the glass, was a woman. She was shorter than him, blazing red hair that fell to her shoulders, which were covered thinly in the gossamer straps of a nightgown. No, it wasn’t a nightgown. It was lingerie.

He swallowed hard, panic and curiosity taking hold. “E-excuse me?” His voice only shook slightly and for that he was glad. This wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood by any means, but there had been a string of break-ins lately.

The woman turned and Ben was taken by her. Even in the failing light she was beautiful, soft features caressed by the glow of the tv. She threw an arm over her breasts instinctively, her chest heaving. But she was smiling. A precious, wild smile that made him grin as well. He couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing here?” He asked her, the television fading to background noise. She was looking back out the window and when she spoke, she wasn’t speaking english. It sounded, it _was_ , French. But he understood her. It was easy, like breathing. How did that work?

“Where is here exactly?” Her voice was smoky and it made him feel warm in his stomach and hands.

“London. Near Amersham stop.”

Beverly gasped, her hand going to her mouth. One moment she had been in her bedroom, rubbing lotion over her smooth legs, the next, she was in a ramshackle flat...in London. This was madness. She was going mad. But here she was, and not two meters from her was...a man. She didn’t recognize him but she felt safe, warm with him.

He cocked his head at her and ran his eyes down her body. It wasn’t a lustful gesture, moreso just to figure her out. She blushed nonetheless.

“London?” She asked, her voice flabbergasted. He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Are you not from around here?” He asked, taking a hesitant step towards her. She looked back out the window, absorbing the twinkling lights of the quiet city street below them. They were maybe only two, three stories up and she felt small because of it. It was not like her twelfth floor suite.

“I’m not.”

Ben knew her from somewhere, she seemed altogether so familiar and so new at the same time. His hands itched to touch her skin. Her long wavy hair flipped over her shoulder as she turned back to him. His eyes were soft, a deep endless brown that made her want to weep. Kind eyes. So foreign to her.

“How did you get in here?” He asked.

She shrugged, tears building behind her eyes. She had no idea, no idea whatsoever. This was incredible. Absolutely phenomenal. It had to be a dream. But she had never seen this part of London. Only the inside of Heathrow. How could she see this place?

“And where are you?” The man asked her.

“France. Orleans.” She replied, her accent catching on the ‘n’ and ‘s’.

He exhaled hard. France. He ran a hand through his hair and shuffled in place. He only had one word running through his head.

Incredible.

“What’s your name?” She asked him, taking a step further into the living room as well. She felt this magnetic need, this drag to be closer to him. She knew him in her head, knew him deep in the parts of her bones she did not know the names of, so deep that the knowing radiated in her soul and all she could think was him. Him, I must know him. I _do_ know him.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck with a sweating hand. She made him nervous, all tight curves and cascading red hair. There was a driving force that wanted him to move forward to touch her hand, anything.

“I’m Ben.“

“Ben.” The name tasted like cotton candy in her mouth.

He gestured at her, never leaving her eyes, bright blue even in the dimness. “And you are -“

“Beverly!” She snapped to attention, reeling away from him, from Ben, and she was back in the apartment on the twelfth floor, in Orleans.

Tom was standing in the doorway connecting the hall with the bedroom, his face burning with fury.

Ben looked around the room. She was gone.

He was frightening, like an animal teeth bared, he had her backed against the vanity. Her heart had picked up its pace swiftly. His fists were clenched around the neck of a bottle of champagne. The other dripping blood. He had smashed a glass in it.

“Tom, what -“

“Who were you just talking to?” He spat, his voice a thundering growl in his throat.

She looked around, suddenly feeling very lost. What was this? Talking to? There was no one here. She had only been talking to Ben...but he was inside her head.

Wasn’t he?

“N-no one, I -“

“I heard you say the name Ben, very distinctly, Beverly, so I want you think very hard about whatever lie you’re about to let slip from that whore mouth of your’s. Who. Were. You. Talking to!” He was coming towards her now, the champagne dropped and pouring out onto the soft white carpet. It would be ruined.

Her eyes darted around the room for some means of escape, but there were only two exits, the window or the door, which he had cut off from her, and the window wouldn’t do her much good either. When she hit the ground she’d be no more than a tangled heap of bone and skin.

“Tom, please, I swear!” He was upon her now, she had tried to cower away but he had grabbed up a thick handful of her hair with his bloodied hand, which made her scalp yelp in pain. He was grabbing from the ends, not the root, tearing and ripping it. She cried out, careful not to be too loud because the neighbors, what Beverly do you want the neighbors to think I beat you, be quiet, don’t scream, stop screaming, don’t scream.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” He struck her then, a hard slap that felt nearly like a punch, so hard that it radiated through her jaw and through her teeth. God, she thought, someone help me. He’s going to kill me this time.

“Tell me the fucking truth you whore!” He screamed, spittle flying from his mouth in a rain and she squinted her eyes hard, so hard they watered, against the next blow she knew was on its way.

When the hand connected, nearly curled to a fist this time, Ben felt it. He was on the floor, holding his cheek, but it wasn’t the hardwood floor of his flat. It was alabaster carpet. He looked up at this man - Tom, he knew - but he didn’t know him. How did he get here?

Beverly raised her hand in defense. “Please, Tom, I swear!” She was sobbing now, tears rolling down her cheeks and it stung the skin, burning. Ben was in the corner now, watching, his hand still clutched to his cheek, heart pounding.

“Stop -“ he tried to say, but no one could hear him. No one except Beverly. She glanced at him, her eyes screaming, “Help me!” and “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

It was then that Tom raised his hand again, and as he brought it down on her, Ben squeezed his eyes tightly, and when he opened them, he was back in his flat, crashed ribcage first into the coffee table, the pint of lager toppled over.

He investigated the room, but it was only him again. Tears stole out of his eyes and he covered his mouth to stifle the sobs. Beverly, her name reverberated in his head like a ricochet, had vanished. Perhaps this time for good. He couldn’t save her.


	4. Part III: I Am Also a We

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this so far!! I would like to mention that if you live in any of the places mentioned here (UK, Germany, Toronto, etc.) PLEASE feel free to PM me and give me details!! (I only know Kansas by heart.)
> 
> Thanks again!!

Dew still lingered on the tips of the pine needles, the forest pulled in tightly under a barrage of early spring rain clouds. In the underbrush, there was a crackling, the sounds of snapping twigs and shrubs brushing up against the trees. Mike stumbled over a fallen branch, one that hadn’t been there the day before when he took this trail. He’d been coming out here for six days now, ever since he saw the temple in his frantic necessary google search.

At first, he had sat under one of the great oaks that sat dab in the middle of the field behind his house and waited. He sat there for nearly seven hours, the sun beating down as it passed by overhead until his mother came out, startling him from a dead sleep he hadn’t realized he’d slipped into. She handed him a glass of iced tea and asked him what he was doing. He lied and said he was birdwatching. He didn’t know why he’d told that lie specifically but she’d shrugged and they’d gone inside, hand in hand.

On the second day he had pushed further out onto his parents’ land, past the oak tree, to the small stretch of forest that wrapped around the backside of the farm and all the way up to the edge of the lake not two miles from where he slept. He thought perhaps, almost in a silly way, that the Jewish boy _had_ come to him the day before, it had only been while he was asleep. He vowed to stay awake this time.

He went to the tree line and paced between the pines and cottonwoods. He traced a calloused hand along each tree as he passed it, making out a large figure eight with his steps.

“Excuse me,” he called to the empty wild, and his voice echoed and rolled through the trees. He rolled his eyes in spite of himself. This was ridiculous. But he waited nonetheless, hoping against hop someone would call out to him in return, or perhaps the boy would peek around the trees and wave to him. But nothing came.

Not that day at least.

On the third day, he went out more, before his parents were awake, the sun still a hazy layer of blues and pinks as it fought to come up over the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful day by his standards, warm but no where near as overbearing as the summer would undoubtedly be this year.

He pressed in for maybe thirty minutes before he heard the faint sounds of what could only be cars. But he was a good fifteen miles from the nearest road and it sounded like a busy city street, honking and grinding brakes. He grew closer, coming around a bend in the trees to a small clearing where a creek careened through the brush.

On one side of it stood him, and on the other, a black-haired boy, tall and all limbs and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He frightened Mike at first, just from how out of place he was, glasses catching the filtered sunlight. They looked at one another pondering for a moment and then just as they opened their mouths to speak, the other was gone, like the snap of a finger. All that was left behind were the deep tread of heavy combat boots slipped into the mud.

Day four came without much consequence, making him so frustrated he’d refused to speak to his family when he came home and went straight to bed.

His mother had awakened him on day five, gently shaking him until his eyes fluttered open. He didn’t speak and instead kept his eyes on the popcorned topping of the ceiling. Suddenly its textures were fascinating.

“What’s going on, Mikey?” She said, her voice tender.

He didn’t answer at first, so she continued.

“You’ve been going out in the woods a lot lately. Should I be worried?” She chuckled a little, tickling him under the ribs.

He smirked and pushed her hands away. “No, I’m not going to end up like Charlie Sullivan, if that’s what you mean.”

She pulled her lips in over her teeth. “It’s okay that you’re taking a few days off, we aren’t worried about that. We just worry in general.”

He sighed and took her hand up in both of his.

“What are you doing out there, Mike?” She asked, her voice quieter than before.

How could he answer this and be even remotely truthful? It didn’t make sense to him, how could he put it in plain English for her?

“I was looking for someone,” he paused. “Something.” Both were truth and lie.

She watched him. “Have you found them?”

He shook his head solemnly.

“Will you find them?”

He sat up slowly and leaned against the headboard. “I hope so.” He answered and they pressed their foreheads together.

So day five had started slowly. But he went further out, past the creek where the dark-haired boy had been, up a hill to the Lookout, a small meadow that sat overlooking the fields of wheat and the farming community that was his hometown.

And he waited.

He paced for a while, letting the gayfeathers and asters rub against his pants and hands, feeling the breeze whip through his shirt and caress his face. Then he sat in the center, pressing his fingers into the soil. He let the dirt ride up under his fingernails and he waited, concentrating on the temple, the smell of Israel - _Israel_ \- and the curls on the Jewish boy’s head. The way they wound in a tight ringlet and bounced with just a slight breath. He tried to push away the swell of heat in his chest and just focus on the image.

For a long time nothing came, and then there was the slight jostling feeling of movement under him, then as he lifted his eyes from the rattling rocks in between the grass, he was smack in the middle of a cluster of people, holding on to the bars above his head. He was on a subway car.

Once more he was awestruck, pulling off headphones that had suddenly appeared over his ears, playing some boy band - One Direction maybe. He took in the sights of the concrete walls as they ran by, looked at each person with fresh new eyes, a Sikh with a blue turban wrapped around his head, a woman with large sunglasses perched on top of her wavy black hair, his own reflection in the glass of the window. He was a white man now, a smidge taller than he was, with dirty blond hair and a soft round face. Mike smiled at him and in the reflection, the man smiled back.

Then they came upon a stop and the sudden light made Mike pull his hand up to shield his eyes, and when he pulled it away, he was back on the Lookout, the sun above him in a neverending arc.

Then yesterday he found himself once again with no luck in seeing anything, instead, whilst up on the Lookout he heard the faint click of a lighter, felt the none familiar taste of smoke in his mouth, a typewriter clicking and and ringing as it hit the end of its line.

And now he was out here again, the burning hope growing only steadily inside of him. He had to try. Today had to be the day.

The forest was slick and muddy, last night’s boomer having drawn rivets where rain poured down the hillside. He trudged lightly, his work boots caked with loam and he grabbed up a branch to hoist himself up, the Lookout not two hundred yards away now.

He had come somewhat prepared this time. After he got off work at the library - he picked up shifts three or four times a week - he used his post-clock out time to print of the photo of the temple. He thought, and it was a silly notion he admitted, that if he just stared at the picture, really focused on the way the light rose through the pew filled auditorium and made the floors flood with blue and green, maybe it would take him back there.

He took to the top of the hill, the Lookout spread out before him like a tidal plume. The flowers were hung heavy, the rain having brought their heads into a low drooping nod. In the middle of the meadow he had smashed down a small circle from sitting and he found it again, letting the seat of his pants become damp in the mud.

The spring breeze wafted over him, lifting up smells of the clean prairie grass until it enveloped him, soaking into his every pore. It calmed him, and he pulled the photo out of his breast pocket.

Nothing happened for a very long time, his eyes growing weary from staring at the crinkled print unblinking. He focused, his head reeling with the same stream of words and feelings and images, all relating to that place, that place, that man.

He closed his eyes to the meadow, to home, and inhaled deeply.

Minutes ticked by as he sat there, the breeze kicking up into a whipping wind, thunder growling overhead. The flowers bobbed and dipped as it picked up, the paper fluttering in his fingers. He had this feeling, not quite unsettling but it made his skin crawl, as if someone was there in the meadow with him. He tried to ignore it, stifle it below the driving need to know more.

A thick roll of thunder vibrated through his chest and the first drops of rain splattered his arms. It was cold, bringing with it a chill that rose the skin on his arms into gooseflesh. For a moment the wind changed, melted away from the smell of spring and wet grass and became warm, like...cloves and cinnamon. The taste of them coated his tongue and his eyes snapped open, searching. He frantically pulled himself to his feet, spinning in a circle, squinting through the rain.

But the meadow was empty. He remained alone on the Lookout, only the wind bringing him whispers of an unknown voice.

  
Beverly awoke groggily, the sun not yet peeking over the horizon. She was on the far edge of the bed, a full arm-length away from Tom, who was cocooned in the blankets like a moth larvae.

She looked to the clock on the bedside table, blinking a red 5:37 out at her. She sighed, knowing full-well she would not be able to fall back asleep. Pushing back the sheets, she let her feet settle on the floor.

In the bathroom, she closed the door fully behind her before she flipped the switch, worried about disturbing Tom’s slumber. The fluorescents flickered on slowly, the room seeping with light.

She turned to the mirror, cringing at the sight of herself.

Across her jaw was a long green and purple splotch, condensing around her eye socket, a deep black. Her cheek was swollen and when she raised a hand to touch the blooming bruise it twinged; Tom had nearly broken her wrist, she thought. After the meeting with Ben - _Ben_ \- Tom had kept going until she was sobbing, blood dripping from her nose in turrets, curling herself further and further into a ball until he had finished ruining her.

He had never gone that far before.

For a brief moment she had looked for Ben where he had been in the corner, to...what? Take her hand? Have him pull Tom off? He wasn’t really there. When she looked for him, she caught a glimpse of something in Tom’s eye, a dark and terrible creature that she had seen many times before...in her father. She had to leave.

But...she couldn’t leave.

Where would she go? She had no money to her name, he made sure of that with the joint bank account and a cashing limit on her credit cards. She only had one true friend, Kay McCall, but Kay was visiting family in the states, near Chicago. She couldn’t help her here.

And he had threatened her before, hadn’t he? All of those little promises and looks that said in so many ways, “You belong to me. No one else wants you. And no one else can ever have you. You can never leave.”

He was a monster and at the end of it all she was afraid of him.

She went to the basin, turning the water on carefully. The faucet squeaked under her hand and she winced, hoping it hadn’t been loud enough to wake him. Nothing came for a moment and she let herself relax, splashing a bit of water on her face.

She let it drip into the sink, her head poised over its drain. When she stood back up fully her heartbeat caught a little in her chest.

In the mirror she did not see her own reflection anymore, bruised and tender. It was him, Ben, his face slathered in shaving cream.

It was her, Beverly, only now she was strewn with bruises, thick and violet against her once porcelain features. He couldn’t believe it. And here he was, covered and sopping with shaving cream, a razor poised in between his fingers.

They stared at each other a moment, his eyes following the curve of the green and purple along her chin, her eye red in the corner from popped blood vessels. It was real, he thought. Tom, the bastard. He didn’t even know the guy and he wanted to throttle him. But, he didn’t know Beverly either and his heart broke for her. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her cheek, tell her she would be okay, sweep her off her feet and help her.

Beverly let her eyes fall away, shame burning her cheeks.

And she was gone. All that remained was him, eyes drooping from sleep, a small fraction of stubble waiting to be cut away.

She didn’t know why she was ashamed, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She turned her eyes up to catch his again, but the mirror was empty lack for her.

And in the bathroom, alone yet again, Beverly began to weep.

  
Eddie pulled his bike into its spot beneath the awning of the garage, unclicking the helmet strapped clipped together beneath his chin. He had been screwing around most of the day, what with not having a job and all it was rather easy. His mother insisted he didn’t need a job since the settlement had come in and he had taken her word for it. She had also insisted that he stay at home, that he didn’t need to move out, didn’t need to leave her. And why should he need to? He had everything he needed right inside the four narrow walls of his own home. But he couldn’t admit to her that he had sent in applications to a few different places. A driving service, a pharmacy two towns over, a college in California... He didn’t have super high hopes for the last one but it was better than...all of this...

He went to the front door, twisting the knob and pushing his way in. His mother was at home, as always, her blue sedan parked in the drive, so he didn’t have to use the key. When he entered, the house was quiet, the all-too familiar sound of the television in the living room no longer filling the empty tinny of the home.

“Mom?” He called, his voice echoing through the front hall. He looked up the stairs to the bedrooms, his mother’s and his own. Both doors were closed tight. He peeked into the living room, but her place in the armchair, its seat depressed from where her ass had made a place for itself, was empty. Confusion ran through his face and he went through the downstairs. All empty.

He decided then to take to the stairs, a creeping suspicion rising in his stomach, bile gurgling to the back his throat. A sweat drew on his brow for some reason, and he wiped it away with the heel of his hand. He took the first step and let his foot rest there, the board creaking under his tennis shoes.

“M-ma?” His voice shook as he began up the steps, his eyes not wavering from her closed door. It didn’t open and no reply came from inside.

At the top of the steps, he paused outside her room. A million little doubts were coursing through his head. Was she sleeping out of schedule? Was she kidnapped? Did she...die? Annoyance to him or not she was still his mother and he loved her.

He knocked gently on the door, the sound barely making a sound on the heavy oak. He cracked it open, peeking his head inside.

Her bed was made up, the large propping pillows she used to keep her airway clear at night sat just so against the headboard. She wasn’t there.

A sinking feeling filled his stomach, his heartbeat quickly rising in his chest. In a panic, he tripped backwards, pulling the door closed. He had to call someone, anyone, the police, the neighbors, anyone who may have seen Sonia Kaspbrak.

He was panting as he burst into his room to find his address book and nearly keeled over, his mother sitting politely on the foot of his bed. He toppled into the doorframe, throwing his hand over his heart to still the speeding rabbit bounding in his ribcage.

“Jesus, mother!” He cried, urging his heart rate to slow.

“Hello, Edward.” Her voice was cold and it caught him off guard.

They looked at each other for a long moment, him panting, her blinking sleepily at him.

“Mom, what’s go-“

“Sit down, Edward.” That stern voice again. He hadn’t heard her say his full name like that since he was a kid. And it only came out when he’d done something particularly bad.

He went to the desk slowly, pulling the swivel chair out and sitting.

The room ballooned with a palpable tension, the eerie feeling creeping back into Eddie’s stomach. He couldn’t look her directly in the face but she wouldn’t stop staring at him. Her eyes were watery beads on an inlay of waxy porcelain. He wanted to speak but his voice caught in his mouth. She broke the silence for him.

“How are you feeling?” Cool like icy water. He swallowed.

“I’m fine.”

“No stomachaches?”

He pondered, wondering where this was coming from. She had always worried, true, but this was...not like that it seemed. “No, nothing.”

“No fevers?”

“No, I, what is this -“

“Headaches?”

It wasn’t even a question. It was posed as one, sure, but Eddie knew that tone. She knew something. He began to sweat again, suddenly very afraid.

“Headaches?” He parroted, trying to keep a straight face.

She pursed her lips. “Headaches.”

He looked around the room as if for some form of escape, the door to the bedroom slightly ajar. He could bolt he knew, but she was faster than she looked. He didn’t know why he wanted to leave, but his fight or flight response was in full swing anyhow. He was afraid.

“I don’t -“

“I read your journal, Edward.”

His eyes grew, anger and fear and disbelief flooding his system. He noticed the journal, a simple blue spiral bound notebook, sitting on the bed beside her. He stood, tripping a little on the legs of the chair, and she snatched it up, holding the notebook close to her chest.

“That’s private!” He held his hand out. “Give it to me!” His voice shuddered a little under the weight of his fear.

She shook her head slowly. “You’ve been lying to me, Edward.” She tapped the cover of the notebook. “Lying about headaches and voices and hallucinations.”

“It’s a joke mom,” he started but she held up a finger.

“It is no joke! You are sick!”

“I’m not sick! I’ve just been...” Struggling to find the word he shook his head. God could only imagine what else she had seen in there. “It’s nothing mom, I promise!”

That slow head shake again. “No, no, Edward. You are very sick! You probably have a tumor! Or worse!” She stood.

Worse was an easy term to decipher. Worse meant _that_ word. The Big C. The creature that took his father. She didn’t have to say it for him to know what she meant, and he swallowed a knot the size of a fist in his esophagus.

“Mom, I -“

“We are going to the hospital, right now, whether you like it or not! Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

“You can’t make me go.” Eddie’s voice was thin, and he knew it wasn’t the truth.

“No? You don’t think so?” She took a step toward him and he stumbled back into the chair, only half on it. He grasped the head of it, his fingernails biting into the fabric, ripping it slightly. He wished he could take a hit off of his inhaler but he knew if he took the time to take it from its place in his fanny pack she would be upon him. She would be upon him soon anyway.

“Kicking and screaming, Edward. You’re going. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

As her shadow cast over him like a suffocating blanket, he wished more than anything that one of those hallucinations would appear and take him far, far away.

  
A light breeze kicked through the screen surrounding the porch, gentle and soft. Bill sat on the swing, which hung from four tarnished silver chains. He pushed himself back and forth, staring out at the backyard. In his mouth was the distinct taste of a cigarette, and he exhaled a plume of grey smoke. But he didn’t smoke.

The screen door creaked open, Bill turning to see Audra. She had a bottle of beer in each hand and handed him one as she sat down. She sniffed.

“Are you smoking?” She asked, laughter in her voice.

He choked on the beer a little. “No? When have you ever seen me smoke?”

She pressed a finger to her chin. “Well there was that time at the premiere party for The Black Rapids or when we went to my brother’s graduation -“

“Okay that one was a cigar and it was a celebration!” He held up a hand and she bumped his shoulder with hers. He sighed and focused on peeling the label from the cold glass of the bottle.

He felt her watching him and he knew what she was thinking. They’d been together for five nearly six years and it was to the point where they could have whole conversations by just exchanging casual glances. He loved that about her.

“It’s getting worse I think.” He said quietly, squinting out the screen wall.

“Worse?” She replied.

He shrugged. “Maybe that isn’t the right word. I just mean... I’m seeing more. Hearing more. I’m even feeling and tasting things now.” He took a sip of beer and noticed his hands were trembling slightly. He squeezed them tighter around the bottle hoping it would help.

Audra pondered, resting her hand on his forearm. “Like what?”

“Well, the cigarette for one. Whoever’s in my head chainsmokes it seems, and not just cigarettes.” He raised his eyebrows at her and she laughed.

“Call the police! Your imaginary friend is smoking weed!” She raised her hands in mock terror.

He laughed too, lowering his eyes again. “But it’s not just that. Someone was drinking chai tea yesterday. And someone else was listening to One Direction on repeat. I heard cows at some point.” A pause, long and tense. “Someone had blood in their mouth.”

Audra let those words sit there for a moment on the breeze, drifting and swirling through the porch. “Are you afraid?”

Bill let the word wash over him. Afraid. He shook his head. “No. I know I should be but I’m just not. These people, whoever they are... it’s like they’re family almost. I haven’t...they aren’t...” he struggled to find the words.

“And the woman?” She asked quietly.

Mother, he thought. He had to come to start calling her that in his head. He shook his head in response. “I don’t know.” He said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” He asked.

She sighed. “No. I don’t think I could if I tried. But my offer to take you to the doctor still stands. If it gets bad.”

“I don’t think I’ll need a doctor,” He said. A novel idea had begun brewing in his mind. “I just want to know if they’re real.”

  
Heavy bass plowed through the crowd of people, nearly 250 packed into a space made for about 175. Richie was sitting on the balcony above all of them, sipping from a whiskey on the rocks. In between his index and middle fingers he held a lit cigarette. Peter was sitting across from him, snorting a line of fine white powder. He sat back and shook his head, squeezing his nostrils and sucking in, eyes closed.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed but Richie could barely hear it over the music, some nameless beat that made people want to rub their sweaty bodies together.

Peter held out the rolled up bill he’d used and Richie took it, leaning his long torso over the table and taking the second line up into his nose. It hit him like a brick, burning and immediately sending him spiraling. He sat back in his seat and rubbed his pinky, dusted in cocaine, on his gums, numbing them. He pushed his glasses up and began to pull his shirt out from his chest, fanning himself.

“It’s fucking hot in here,” He said.

Peter squinted at him. “Fucking take it off then!” He gestured at his shirt.

He didn’t have to be told twice, pulling his thin grey v-neck over his head and throwing it haphazardly over the balcony railing. He had plenty just like it he thought after he’d already watched it float down onto someone’s head. His torso was littered with ink, random tattoos dotting his skin. He had a black sleeve of dots and lines, a permanent scribble of someone’s signature, Richie couldn’t remember whose at this point, and the words “It’ll all wash away in the rain” scrawled across his collarbone. There were many others in various places on his body, too numerous to count.

Peter scanned the room, his eyes bloodshot. He settled them on two girls also in the VIP section, one with long dark hair that licked the center of her back and the other with a blonde and blue deathhawk. He pointed at them and Richie turned to look. The girls were staring at them, sly smiles on their mouths. The boys waved, two fingers curling into palms.

“Which one do you want?” Peter asked, leaning over the table. His messy brown hair fell into his dark blue eyes.

Richie shrugged. “I’m feeling strictly dickly lately.”

“Any others on the playground then?” Peter asked, completely unfazed.

He didn’t have to look to know none of them were worth his time. He wasn’t completely sure why he felt this way. It was deeply rooted in him. He felt far away, as if his body was here, reeling and waving and excited from the coke, and his mind and soul were drifting on the wind, looking over landscapes he had never seen with his own two eyes.

Richie hadn’t told Peter about the voices or the people he’d been seeing. He felt like perhaps his lifelong friend would think them the side effect of some intense drug but he didn’t partake as often as it seemed. A line here or there, a poorly rolled joint in others. These things - people - were real, he knew it. He just didn’t know who they were or why they were there. He had only seen a handful but he knew others were there. He had seen a chubbier man who had been talking on the phone with a thick British accent, he couldn’t tell what kind, a tall black boy deep in a forest - he was sad that interaction hadn’t lasted long - and a girl, a woman really, with fire-blaze hair, who nodded her cigarette at him and smiled. He’d also been hearing things, distant music, water running, light melodic singing. He was afraid to tell Peter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slow-moving gauze of light blue move through the VIP. He turned to it, and it was like the world began to spin in slow motion even through the coke and the music.

Across the lounge, moving silently through the people, was a man dressed in a hospital gown, his pale feet bare. Richie felt a breeze on his tongue; his mouth had fallen open slightly.

The man looked up, catching his eye. Richie could feel the corners of his mouth pulling up into a grin unintentionally. The other man was striking, even in hospital blues. His brown hair was neatly parted and even in the dark Richie could see his eyes were brown. It did seem odd that he was here in the club wearing that, but then the room bloomed into something else, the stale corridor of a cold hospital. It was another one of them.

He was there one moment, sitting in the chair along the wall and then they were in a dark club, his glasses catching the flashing lights. Eddie watched the dark haired man from the corner of his eye as they passed one another, his heart pounding. He turned slowly back to the front, his mother waddling along behind a doctor. He wanted to keep looking, to see if perhaps he was imagining it, him, but he was afraid. It wasn’t just the fact that he was seeing someone else that he was sure wasn’t there, it was a sickly sweet feeling that settled in his chest. Something akin to perhaps desire. And he could feel something in the other man too, several things, jittery and hopped up on something. His leg had been jumping up and down and he was shirtless, sweaty. And Eddie thought that underneath all of that he might be filled with...butterflies.

Richie rubbed his stomach absentmindedly.

“Rich!” Peter called and he turned to him, suddenly surprised to see him there.

“See anyone you fancy?” His eyebrows were raised.

He looked around the lounge but the man was gone.

Eddie tucked a quick peek over his shoulder again, scanning the row of hard metal benches pressed against the wall but they were empty.

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself. “I’m going crazy.”

His mother turned to him, her head twisting around so quick he was sure her neck must have snapped. “What did you say?” They paused in the doorway of a private room - only the best for her Eddie-bear - as the doctor fumbled some keys around. His heart jumped a little. Why did it need a key?

“I didn’t say anything.” His voice was defiant. He couldn’t let her see him shaken. More shaken than she’d already seen.

In the car on the way over, he had pressed his hand to the door handle, ready to bolt whenever she stopped at a red light or stop sign. But she had kept a long painted fingernail pressed down on the lock button whenever they did come to one, granted not many, and even at the hospital, three nurses were waiting for them in front of the huge white building. He had been to this hospital plenty of times when he was younger but now it seemed looming, threatening. They’d never been greeted at the door either. As his mother shoved him into the wheelchair they’d provided, he’d noticed one of them had a long syringe filled with clear viscous nestled gently in his fingers. That’s when Eddie knew for sure he had to escape.

He shoved past her into the room, dark and sullen with a bed pressed up against the right wall. There was a line of windows and the blinds were closed tight against the outside. If they weren’t on the fourth floor, Eddie could consider that an escape option. Maybe if things got bad, he would anyway.

“Sorry for the wait,” the doctor said. Her name tag read ‘Dr. Kevlar’. “We had to ensure we got the right room as per request of your mother.” Her face was sour, Eddie noticed, nose pinched up at the reminder of the tantrum his mother had thrown in the lobby when she was told she would have to wait for a private facility.

But his mother was proud of herself, beaming as she looked around the room. “No this will do just fine. I just want every test you have available put on the schedule.”

The doctor wrung her hands together, eyes flitting quickly between him and his mother.

“Sonia,” she started. “You know that we can only do so much in a day. Eddie is not our only patient -“

“Make time for him!” She quipped, neck snapping again as she glared down her nose at the doctor.

Kevlar flinched back a little. “Ma’am, as I have said before -“

“Make. Time. For. Him.” Every word was punctuated hard and final.

Eddie wished he could scream out at Dr. Kevlar, tell her he wanted to leave, get me out get me out get me out! Instead he just looked at the linoleum, watching his toes as he curled them under and out again.

The doctor went to go. “Yes, Sonia.” And so went Eddie’s chance.

First, there were the standard tests. Blood pressure, reflexes, the taking of temperature. Sonia watched as Eddie was subjected to poking and prodding, her lips a thin line.

Then came the others, needles taking blood, CAT scans, sensors stuck to his temples and under his collarbone, scribbling data on a long sheet of lined paper. Eddie let himself be subjected to all of it, thinking endlessly of the dark-haired boy in the club, covered in tattoos. Who was he? Where was he? Was he real? That pushed him to think of the others, the voices, the tastes and smells. Was any of it real?

They left the neuro department to head back to his private room, his mother leading him more than following the nurse in front of her. Eddie watched the back of her shoulders, wriggling under her floral shirt.

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting them gain distance. Maybe now he could go, slowly turn away and head down the opposite hall, tuck behind a corner and leave, hail a taxi and escape home. He could pack a bag, take what little cash he had hidden away and go stay at a hotel. And...then what?

He took a tentative step back, the floor cold under the plastic blue socks they had given him. His mother was a hundred yards away now, not noticing he wasn’t there. Another step. He could do it. He could go.

He took another step, twisting on the sock and ran straight into someone. His nose bumped the man’s chest and he grabbed it, searing heat flooding his sinuses.

The man was tall, perhaps 30 centimeters taller than him. His chestnut hair fell in waves over his shoulders, dark eyes that were almost pitch. He smiled gently.

“I think you’re going the wrong way, young man.” He said. It wasn’t malicious, but something about his eyes seemed threatening, frightening. Eddie shrunk back into himself.

“I know you want to leave, Eddie. Just give it time.” He nodded his head, not losing track of Eddie’s own eyes. He couldn’t look away even though he desperately wanted to. He focused on the man’s light grey scrubs.

“H-how do you know my name?” He asked.

The man ignored him, taking him gently by the arm and turning him back the way he’d been going.

He let himself be led, the man’s touch soft against the polyester sleeve of his gown. His mother and the nurse had noticed he was missing and his mother was storming back down the narrow hall, her heels making a terrible clacking sound as they hit the linoleum. He didn’t look at her.

“What happened? Who are you?” She screamed, her voice an echoing bullhorn.

“He just got turned around, that’s all,” the man said. “I was making sure he made it safely back to his room.”

Sonia Kaspbrak squinted at him, unsure if she should be mad or thankful. Instead she took Eddie by the shoulder and pushed him forward, only slightly forceful. “What’s your name?” She asked the nurse.

He put his hands up defensively, palms out. “Torrance, ma’am. Danny Torrance. I’m a nurse on this floor.”

His mother screwed her face up. Eddie knew what she was thinking - a male nurse. She began down the hall with Eddie, watching Nurse Torrance as she went and then turning back, picking up her pace.

Eddie gave one last glance over his shoulder, but Torrance was gone. But deep in his soul, he felt him there, in his skin, in his pores, deep in his bones.

As Eddie lay in his hospital bed that night, hours and hours after his mother had cornered him in his bedroom, he curled himself into a tight ball, and silently cried himself to sleep.

  
It was completely dark out now, the stars dappling over the skyline. Bill lounged in the back of the bookstore, a small mom-and-pop paperback shop filled with dusty secondhand books. Ralph, the owner, sometimes let him stay after he would normally close to work on things. He had a flurry of papers stacked out across the table, his curling script covering each and every one of them in different colored ink.

He had come here to work on the novel he’d been struggling to finish, the first draft deadline only a month away. But instead, he sat staring at the beginning of the manuscript for nearly an hour, his pens sitting untouched on the table.

But then, it came to him to perhaps just write down all of the things that were going on. He started with Mother, and then the people he had seen, creating a timeline. What they looked like, what they sounded like, descriptions of their surroundings, the things he had heard, smelled, tasted. Two hours later there was an entirely new stack of notes, nearly half a notebook’s worth, spread out and shuffled across the table, crumpled and folded and dog-eared.

He heard a jingle from the front of the shop and looked up briefly then back down at the sheet in his hand. He had scribbled in capital letters the words ‘GERMANY (???)’ and ‘MIDWEST’ with two checkmarks next to it. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure about Germany, but he could have sworn he heard its native tongue being screamed at some point.

There was suddenly the overwhelming feeling of a presence, someone else in this tiny nook with him. He froze, the page in his hand trembling ever so slightly. He swallowed hard. He peeked up under his top eyelashes, afraid of who might be there.

Leaning against a bookshelf, the glass door darkened behind him, stood a man. He was normal looking, Bill decided, long brown hair and dark eyes, a soft smile on his face. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a maroon shirt underneath, and faded jeans. He looked like any other dude one might pass on the street.

Bill pulled himself up fully, sizing the guy up. He had calmed significantly. There was something that read safe to him, however eerie it was. Something so...familiar about him.

“Hello, William.” The man spoke, his voice smooth.

Bill sat back in his seat, setting down the note carefully. How did he know his name?

“I know you probably have a lot of questions but I don’t have a lot of time,” The man said, coming up to the table and resting his palms on it. He was close enough that Bill had no problem smelling the curl of musk and coconut on his skin.

“H-how do you know my n-name?” Bill pushed himself away from the table, cursing himself for letting the childhood stutter resurface.

The man pulled his eyebrows up and chuckled. “I know quite a bit. And you want to know too. You don’t right now. But you will.” He nodded, and began towards the exit. “I’ll see you soon, William.”

Bill tripped after him. “It’s Bill, wait, please, who are you!”

The man slammed his palm against the glass door and went out into the night. Bill ran a hand through his hair, looking at the pile of papers. His heart was pounding again, a million things running through his mind. Fuck the papers, he thought. He couldn’t let him leave.

He jumped around a chair, knocking it over and stumbled to the doorway. He heard Ralph call over to him, “Bill, you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back!” He pushed out onto the sidewalk and spun around, wind rushing through his ears. He watched the man slip around the corner into the alleyway and Bill sprinted in that direction.

He came upon the alley, sweat dripping down his temples. Down a ways, past a set of dumpsters, the man started into a car, a dented black Honda with Vermont plates. He could read the letters and numbers - LCS 778.

“Wait!” He called.

But the man tipped an invisible hat and climbed into the car, slamming the door and revving the engine.

“Fuck!” Bill screamed. But then he remembered. Silver. She was still parked in front of Ralph’s.

The black Honda tore out of the alley and Bill bolted the opposite direction, his feet hitting the cobblestone fast and hard. The bike wasn’t locked up - no one needed to lock their things up in Derry - and he climbed on top of her, running a few feet before taking his feet to the pedals. He pumped his legs until they burned, flipping out onto Kansas Street and there it was, the black Honda barreling down the road far too fast. Bill narrowed his eyes, picking up speed. He had to be going at least 30 miles an hour now, gaining on the car.

There was a light ahead, and it turned yellow. Bill had a feeling in his gut that the man wouldn’t slow or even stop so he pushed harder, knowing he too would have to run the light. It turned red, the car screaming through the intersection, Bill nearly on his bumper. A red pickup truck slammed on its brakes to his right and there was a mashing or horns but he didn’t stop. He was almost on him. There was a flash of lights and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and suddenly the wind was off his face and he opened his eyes again, a scream emitting from deep in his throat.

He was in the car.

The man, driving with one hand casually draped over the wheel, laughed. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you Bill?”

They locked eyes and Bill clutched his chest, glancing frantically out the car window and then back at the man, the buildings flying past them. “What the fuck!” He cried and the man laughed again, harder now.

“What the fuck is absolutely right! You’re doing amazing son, really amazing. But please, I think you ought to return to your bike.”

“What -“ Bill turned as the man ran another red light, this time a semi coming to a skidding halt to the left and Bill felt the wind slap him across the face, swerving to avoid being hit. He looked between his legs and there was Silver, his legs still pumping furiously up and down up and down, keeping time with the car.

He became more determined, pedaling until he was outside the driver’s side window. The driver waved at him, a shit-eating grin clapped across his face. Bill narrowed his eyes and pumped once, twice more, then jerked the handlebars to the right, slamming Silver into the car and then -

He was in it again, but this time, he was in the driver’s seat. The man laughed, slapping his hands against his jeans. He flipped his hair over his shoulders.

“I am extremely impressed. Your mother would be so proud!”

Mother!

“Who are you!” Bill said, his voice shaking and he kept glancing between the road and his passenger.

He held up his hands and blew air out of his mouth in a quick whistle. “You earned that one, I’m sure, but we have bigger issues at hand.”

“Like what? Tell me!” Bill said, his voice shrill, not taking his eyes off of the man. The road began to shudder underneath the tires.

“I’ll find you again soon, I promise,” He was calm, completely opposite of everything Bill was feeling, all anger and frustration and blasting adrenaline. “But for now, you should know you’re about to go straight into the canal.”

Bill turned and he was back under the open sky, Silver wobbling wildly under him and indeed, he crashed headlong into the guardrail and then he was flying, thrown from the bike and down the short hill into the rocky trench of the canal. He hit his chin against an outcropping of granite and he felt the skin split open, rattling his teeth together. Above him in the street, he could hear the screeching of tires, but the car wasn’t there anymore.

He let his head fall into the cold shallow water, soothing the coursing cut on his chin. And Bill Denbrough howled with laughter.

It was fucking real.


	5. Part IV: Smart Money’s on the Skinny Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for taking the time to read this, I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> Super hard content warning for violence, domestic violence, and racism.

A slight breeze dusted across the pavilion, the sky overcast with the first of many spring rainstorms. The cafe was deserted now, it didn’t open until 9, and Beverly sat alone at one of the patio tables, light blue headphones pulled down over her ears like earmuffs. She held between her long thin fingers an unlit cigarette, rolling the filter along her knuckle.

_I know that it is freezing,  
But I think we have to walk..._

She put the smoke between her teeth, lips and cheeks still tender. The bruises had faded along her jaw, but there were still the faint dappling of yellow and green right under her eye, like a soft eerie highlight. The early spring wind brushed at her and she pulled her fuzzy gray cardigan in tighter around her body. This was one of the few things in her wardrobe that she hadn’t designed - and it was easily her favorite piece of clothing. She’d found it at a street market back in September, away from Tom as he went on a trip to New York for something or other, and it caught her eye before she even came upon the cart. It cost her less than a smile and she always wore it when she wanted to feel cozy.

_Keep waving at the taxis,  
They keep turning their lights off..._

She let the cigarette sit there and slipped a lighter out of the cardigan’s inside pocket, but still didn’t light it. From the corner of her eye, something materialized, it seemed, from the street corner through the gray backdrop of the still sleeping city and its gloomy skyline. When she looked up, she was surprised to see someone she recognized, vaguely.

A black-haired man with thick-rimmed glasses was approaching, hand shoved deep in the pocket of his faded and ripped jeans. He had on a plain navy v-neck, a strip of permanent ink showing through its cut. In between his fingers, he held a cigarette of his own. She recognized him from a week or so ago; he’d been smoking outside of a brick building, heavy thumping music coming from inside. They had nodded at one another and then he’d been gone. It was quick.

But she wasn’t afraid of this apparition, whoever he was. In her heart one word drummed on repeat - safe, safe, safe.

_But Julie knows a party at some actor’s west side loft,  
Supplies are endless in the evening by the morning they’ll be gone..._

He smiled gently at her and she returned it. He gestured carefully at the chair on the opposite side of her table and she nodded, waving her hands in a, “go ahead,” movement. He sat, and Beverly noticed he had headphones in as well. For a moment, another song struggled to overpower _Lua_. He pointed at her headphones and without speaking, she knew he was asking what she was listening to.

She produced her phone and pointed the screen at him. He smiled, chuckled mutely, and then took out his own phone, pausing the music playing on it. Something black and metal it seemed from the album art.

_When everything is lonely I can be my own best friend,_

She watched his head nod softly in time with the guitar. Deep in her chest she knew he could hear it too.

_I get a coffee and the paper,  
Have my own conversations..._

He took a lighter out of the waistband of his tight jeans and held it out under her cigarette. She inhaled the flame gratefully and sat back against the cool rail of her seat. He lit his own and tucked the Bic back into his pants. They sat, letting the breeze lick their faces and exhaled together. Smoke curled around their heads momentarily and then was swept away. They didn’t need to speak, she knew. With this one, it would all be effortless. Somewhere, somehow, she knew him. Knew his everything.

_With the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection..._

He pointed behind her, long bony fingers littered in minuscule cuts. She turned, half expecting someone, a waiter or someone else - Tom - to be standing right there. But the patio was empty. She turned back, brows furrowed. He shook his head slowly and then wiped his finger under his eye. He’d been pointing at her face.

Ah. The bruise. She felt a blush rise to the surface of her skin and shook her head, not looking at him. She toyed with the skin around her perfectly manicured fingernails to avoid looking him in the eyes.

_The mask I polish in the evening by the morning looks like shit..._

She felt something clasp over her hand and looked up. The man was staring at her with such a solemn determination that her heart bumped against her ribs, his own hand large and rough on her’s. His dark eyes, so deep and heavy brown they almost appeared black, hid behind a curly wave of hair. He didn’t say anything, but it was almost as if she could feel the words he wanted to speak. The feeling filled her whole body and she felt an all-too familiar burning desire to weep. But his fingers squeezed around hers tightly.

Inside of her it was as if he was speaking plain as day, though his lips didn’t move. She wondered absently, if he knew what he was saying.

That it would never happen again. He would never, _ever_ , let it happen again.

She smiled and he let the corner of his mouth twist up in a smirk and she knew that he did. And she knew he was telling the truth. They sat like that, not really together, spread across fields and mountains and rivers, in silent reverie for what felt like hours but really was probably only a couple of minutes or so. And she realized with dawning melancholy, that she had never felt as safe and loved as she did right then.

_Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is._

  
Mike slipped in the door of the 24-hour gas station, the McLouth Oil Company or MOC, a little after midnight. A bell dinged over the door and Donnie, the night attendant, looked up briefly from his newspaper and waved three fingers at him, still gripping the paper. Mike nodded at him and rubbed his eyes, heading down the steps to the pop machine.

He’d stayed late at the library tonight, putting away misplaced books and logging the book drive volunteers in a spreadsheet on the ancient Dell at the front desk. In the dead silence of the building he still heard things, the groaning wail of the walls as the wind rattled outside and something far and distant like the wind was blowing through prairie instead of against crumbling city sidewalks. He wondered if that was someone else, one of the others perhaps. After he’d finished the spreadsheet, he let the mouse clicker linger over the Chrome icon for a long time, then finally clicked it. His fingers were blurs of motion as he typed in what he was now considering his “symptoms” - _hearing voices, seeing people, ending up in strange places._

It was more vague than he liked but it was all he could think of. The first ten links were WebMD pages and a medical PDF about what to look for when schizophrenia ran in the family. He passed over them, knowing it wasn’t what he was looking for.

At the bottom of the third page was a newspaper article from something called “The Discreet Med Journal”, the title _BPO continues illegal experiments_. The name made him wary, honestly it sounded like something run by someone who had an affinity for tinfoil hats, but the title peaked his interest.

The page had definitely confirmed his fear, the headline splashed across the top screaming, “THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE” in large capital letters with some adorable cartoon UFOs placed on either side. But the article looked well written. It was by someone with the handle ‘hackerqueeninthenorth’ and Mike skimmed over it at first, not terribly confident he would find what he was looking for. But then something caught his eye.

“... _the Biologic Preservation Organization has refused to comment on the accusations that they use outdated and torturous methods to conduct their experiments, sticking with the story that they only hope to expand the world’s knowledge of the human genome. However, witnesses state that not only has BPO conducted lobotomies, but also enroll use of electroshock “therapy”, sensory deprivation, and sleep and starvation techniques. These witnesses say that these experiments are to cut off the sensorium from their other connections, in so many words.”_

Mike felt his heart quicken to a hollow pound. Experiments? Electroshock? ...lobotomies? Jesus, he thought, sitting back in his seat. What kind of fucked up shit is that?

But the last sentence was what caught him. “...to cut off the sensorium from their other connections...” he whispered to himself, his lips mumbling over the words.

He pulled up another tab in the browser and typed _sensorium_ , hitting a quick enter at the end.

All that pulled up was a link to the Merriam-Webster dictionary and the word’s definition at the top. He tried to scroll farther down, but the page was empty save for the three curt links. Suddenly, the computer screen went black, the sound of the computer whirring down echoing through the building.

“The fuck?” Mike said, trying to turn the computer back on by pressing the power button on the tower. It made a sound like it was fighting to come back on, but it remained dead. Mike sat back in his chair again, puzzling over it. Perhaps it was a short in the system, or the computer, which could have easily been fifteen years old, was just finally done. He had gathered his things and left, deciding to stop at MOC and grab a drink on the way home.

The bell over the door chimed again and he looked up from the cup he was filling with Coke. He couldn’t see anyone over the short wall but he heard some voices. He went back to filling the cup and pulled to the counter to grab a lid.

“Lookey who it is, boys.” He snapped his head to attention, knowing that voice.

There stood Henry Bowers at the foot of the stairs, Patrick Hockstetter, Victor Criss, and Belch Huggins flanking him. Peter Gordon was also with him, he saw, making himself look busy with a row of dusty Hostess donuts on one of the shelves.

Mike wasn’t afraid of Henry, not anymore really, but he always got the feeling that Henry was on the cusp of something, something dark and protruding over a steep hill. Mike sat his drink down carefully, lid poised in his hand.

“Evening Henry,” He said politely. Henry glared at him with pitch eyes.

“What you doing out this late, Hanlon? I almost didn’t see you walking outside you’re so fucking dark.” He snickered, and Patrick snorted as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Patrick was jittery, probably methamphetamines, if Mike had to guess. Belch and Vic laughed quietly and shifted from foot to foot. Peter was shoving donuts in the pocket on the inside lining of his jacket. He didn’t need to steal; his family had plenty of money.

He tried to bite his tongue. His dad had always encouraged him not to engage them. But Mike couldn’t stop himself. “Well silly me, Hank, guess I should have called ahead and had Criss come through to light the way for me.” He gestured at Victor, who looked quickly at Belch and then at his shoes. He was pale, it was true, nearly albino it seemed, with white blond hair and light grey eyes. Mike hadn’t thought it was that funny but Patrick, definitely hopped up on meth it was decided, guffawed in a hacking choking laugh. The others shot him dirty looks and he let the laugh taper off, scratching at the skin on his elbow.

“Real clever for a darkie,” Henry spat, his voice lowered to a gravelly husk. Mike winced and then pushed the look away. He couldn’t let him win. He’d been called much, much worse.

“Well this darkie did graduate from high school.” He let the words settle. He knew they would pack the right punch.

Henry clenched his fists together and then released them. Mike could see him working something over in his head. He took a step towards him, and regretfully, Mike took a short step backwards. It was deeply rooted instinct.

Henry closed the distance between them and took the cup of Coke in his hand. Smiling at Mike, an eerie far away smile, he began to make a coughing sound in the back of his throat. Then, after a moment, he bent his face over the mouth of the cup and spit a fat, green loogie in the drink.

Mike bit the inside of his cheek, not looking at the cup. He towered over Henry, maybe a good nine inches or so above the ruffled feather top of his hair. But damn did he make him feel small sometimes.

Henry sat the cup back on the counter, his face done up in an unpleasant smirk. Then he shoved Mike, hard, knocking him back two feet. Mike caught his balance and took a fast step forward to meet Henry again, rage bubbling up in his stomach. His fists were held tightly together and he was ready to raise them, god was he ready to punch that smug little face. Belch, Vic, Patrick, and Peter took a hesitant step forward when Donnie shouted over the counter.

“Hey, Bowers! Get the fuck out of here! Right now!” His smoker’s voice came loud and unprompted. The others shifted and straightened up, as if suddenly realizing where they were.

“Let’s go, Henry,” Vic said, his voice shaking only a little.

Donnie came to the top of the stairs, the paper crumpled in his hand. He looked at the others, his eyes catching all four of their faces at once then turned to Henry and Mike. He locked eyes with Mike, and nodded. All good? Mike nodded back. All good.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” He said, sweeping over them once more. The building was silent except for the static of the radio playing in the upstairs area.

“Henry!” Belch hissed and Peter came up beside him, taking his arm but Henry jerked away. He was glaring up into Mike’s face, but he wouldn’t return the look. He was panting, breath coming in and out of his nose in short shallow heaves. Push the anger down, Mikey, he could hear his father’s voice. You’re better than this.

Hesitantly, Henry turned away but didn’t break his gaze. It wasn’t until Peter was dragging him through the door that he finally turned. In the next few seconds, Mike heard the slamming of car doors, the rev of an engine and the squealing of tires as the five of them ripped out of the parking lot.

Mike finally let himself relax, feeling tension flow out of his body, his lungs filling whole and happily. Donnie leaned against the doorjamb. “You okay Mike?” He asked.

He swallowed hard and nodded, taking the cup and tossing it in the trash can to the left of the pop machine. He wasn’t so thirsty anymore. He was usually a calm person, but right now he could not get an image out of his head. He had Henry on the ground, and was hitting him until he stopped moving.

  
A breeze pulled faintly through the reeds, whistling in a high pitched whine that reminded Stan of singing. Sirens, he imagined, hiding among the papyrus and deep in the peat. He was sitting on a small bridge, letting his legs dangle over the side and swing lazily back and forth, hidden in the marsh grasses.

He felt at peace for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Ever since...well ever since everything had started. Whatever this was. The valley spread out and enveloped him on all sides, the early morning sun risen above the mountain line and warming the air. He was squinting out over the marsh, looking for nothing in particular. His eyes followed the swirling dip of the _Vanellus spinosus_ , not many sure, but a few dozen. They were soft and adorable and they would land along the shallows, their long stick legs running along the water with quick determination. And a bit away, there were hundreds if not thousands of cranes, _Grus grus_ , were squalling and crying to one another, dotting the fields. He had accidentally left his notebook at home and urged himself for doing so, but he made a mental note to describe their numbers, the sound of their cries, once he got back home.

He looked down, his eyes watching the water ripple as tiny water bugs jumped along its surface. He smiled to himself. His father used to bring him out here, when he was a kid, pointing out birds as they flew overhead or nestled in between the reeds and grasses making their nests. Whenever he would come across one he’d never seen before, his father would tap the breast pocket of his own shirt and say, “Write it down.” He of course would scramble to pull out his small black field notebook with its attached pencil and get as many details as he could down before the bird flew away. He loved those moments with his father. They were one of the few times they didn’t have to be so...rigid. Put together. He was a good man, his father, patient and kind and supportive.

As he got older and drifted into his teen years, they’d stopped being able to come out as much together. But he would always encourage Stan to go out anyway, take notes in his now ragged and torn field notebook. Even though it wasn’t uniform anymore, he didn’t dare get rid of it. It was filled with memories.

Stan focused on the end of his shoe for a moment, straining to push his leg out until the toe dipped the surface of the water. He wasn’t sure why, something was driving him to do it. He rested his chin on his hands, looking over the knee-high rail he was leaning on, and peered down into the water. He studied his reflection, all warped and wrong from the distortion. It was weird, not ok. He squinted his eyes up, trying to push back the gnawing discomfort of how asymmetrical he seemed.

Something fell from the sky and splashed heavy into the water, sending droplets of bracken swamp and thin sandy mud all over his legs and Stan, terrified, heart pounding, stumbled up and backwards, pressing himself into the opposite railing. He put a hand over his heart.

From his left, there was a cackling giggle and he turned. There stood one of them, a lanky black-haired boy with glasses. He was leaning over the railing and watching as hundreds of tiny glittering fish scattered and a mushroom cloud of mud bloomed around where the rock struck. “Hot damn!” He said, but it wasn’t Hebrew. It wasn’t even Arabic or English. It sounded thicker, like he was choking rather than speaking.

Suddenly a different world bloomed around them and Stan took a step back, bumping into a metal chair. They were in a cafe, it seemed.

This isn’t real, he thought. It can’t be. He looked around, trying to read the signs. He recognized the language, could even read them some. It was...German. Oh god.

“You come here often?” The bespeckled man asked. He was smirking at Stan and he squinted back at him. How is he so calm?

They were back on the bridge, birds squalling and screaming. He began to tremble. This wasn’t real, why was this happening?

“Who are you?” Stan asked, his voice coming out barely above a whisper. The other man chuckled and stuck out his hand, the breeze ruffling his already manic curls. Stan stared at the hand and internally refused to take it.

He got the hint and dropped his hand. “I’m Richie. And you are?”

Stan shifted in his loafers. The name seemed familiar somehow. How did he know this guy. “I’m Stanley Uris.” He held his arms tight over his middle.

Richie hopped up so he was sitting in the railing and swung his legs back and forth. “Stanley Uris. Stan the Man. Nice name. Nice countryside.” He looked around. “And uh, what countryside is this?”

He caught eyes with Stan who was trying and failing to hide his discomfort. If this was another one of those, hallucinations, he didn’t think he could handle it. Stuff like this didn’t happen. Stuff like this couldn’t be real. But he spoke anyway. He felt like it was becoming too common for him to have to introduce his home to other people. “The Hula Valley.”

“Hula! Like Hawaii!” He made a wave motion with his hands, a bright stupid smile on his face. Stan shook his head.

“Israel.” They were back on the cafe patio, cars driving by at a ridiculous speed and Stan felt the wind of their motion on his face. Not real, not real, not real.

The man, Richie pushed his glasses up and raised his eyebrows. “Well shit, ain’t that a kick in the ass. Fucking Israel.” He laughed again.

Stan cringed. “Could you watch your mouth, please.”

Richie covered his mouth with black painted fingertips. “Sorry, it just seems really funny.”

Stan took a step toward him, carefully, the brick path feeling foreign to him. This whole place was foreign to him. It made him sick to his stomach. “How is it funny?”

Richie shrugged, took a sip from the cup of black coffee placed in front of him. Stan could taste its bitter on his tongue and smacked it around in his mouth to get rid of it. Panic was slowly building. He was trying his best to stifle it but it was just...wrong.

“It’s funny,” he leaned backwards precariously over the edge of the railing towards the water. “Because it seems the powers to be have a dick sense of humor, and yes I mean dick. They give us superpowers and make a Jew and a German BFFs in the process.” He laughed, shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s very funny. And these aren’t superpowers. They’re,” _A bad dream?_ “Not real. This can’t be real.”

Richie hopped down from the railing and towards the street, suddenly back along the side of the cafe. He let his feet graze the edge of the sidewalk. Stan studied him. “I think it’s real Mr. Urine - “

“Uris.”

“How can it not be! I mean look around you!” He spun in a circle, his arms high above his head. Stan did. “You ever seen any of this before?”

He hadn’t. No, he had never gone further than the Wailing Wall when he was a teenager with his parents. He’d never been east, or south, never got a visa to leave and never, ever, been to Germany.

Stan wanted to cry. This wasn’t fair. How could he be sick? Seeing things? These hallucinations were too much, too much!

“Hey,” Richie’s voice was right in front of his face and he looked up. The man’s face was solemn, even a little apologetic. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m scared too. But I don’t think you’re sick.”

He took a step back and Richie grinned again. “See? You know I’m right. Deep down, you do. And I bet you’re worried about the German-Jew thing.” Stan blinked at him.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he took a short step back into the street and Stan wanted to grab him, but it was suddenly as if they were in two rooms divided by a large open doorway; Richie on the street, and Stan on the bridge. This was madness, he thought to himself. Complete and utter madness. “Wouldn’t that be the kinkiest taboo of all time? Hitler would roll over in his grave!”

“That’s so crude - “

There was a blaring of horns, two quick ‘beeps’ as a car flew past Richie, catching him off guard and Stan laughed, watching the other’s eyes grow three sizes too big for his glasses.

“I think God has spoken. Beep beep, Trashmouth.” Stan said, shaking his head at his hands. He wanted to be angry for what Richie had said, but something inside of him said it was just his nature, that he didn’t know when to shut up.

Richie straightened the lapel on his leather jacket and turned to Stan. He was smiling again, completely unfazed. “Trashmouth, ha, I kinda like that.” He smiled again at Stan, whose world was starting to fade into the corners of his own. “I think you and me are gonna be good friends.”

He had a coy smile on his face and Stan thought that he may be right about that. But he was starting to disappear. “Wait!” He called, the valley starting to swallow the rims of whatever German city Richie was in. Richie looked at him, waiting.

“H-have you seen anyone else?” It was the only thing he could think of. But he had to know if it was just him. Even if he was sure it wasn’t.

“Of course,” Richie said with a laugh, the valley now completely consuming him. “Haven’t you?”

  
The elevator bell rang and a voice, which Ben associated with robots for some reason, said, “Twelfth floor.” The doors opened and he stepped out, adjusting the strap of his shoulder bag. He felt too put together, the thin black tie his mother had got him for Christmas strangling him. He’d tried to fix it four times on the train over but couldn’t seem to relieve it of it’s tourniquet quality.

Inside the lobby there was a huge sleek chrome desk, a curly haired brunette woman with a headset on sitting behind it. He went up to it and rested his hands on the cool countertop. The woman barely glanced up at him as she was typing on the computer. Ben waited patiently and looked around the lobby. It was all sleek walls and tall clear windows that looked out on the city. He was in the heart of London now.

When he’d got the call three days ago from the offices of Brinkley and Burke, he was told it would just a quick interview and a discussion about his past work on the Gemson Bridge in a small burrough just outside of town. It wasn’t anything terribly fancy but they’d seemed excited about it.

The woman finally looked up and Ben noticed her name tag said ‘Carol’. “How can I help you?” She asked in a soft Liverpool accent.

Ben nodded. “I’m here for a twelve with Emerson Brinkl - “

“Oh! You’re that Hanscom guy!” She lit up like a soundboard and rolled away from the desk and came around the side. She took his hand and shook it vigorously. He smiled in spite of himself and cleared his throat.

“Yea, that’s me.” Carol wouldn’t let go of his hand and he was starting to worry she was going to hold it forever and just come with him to the meeting. Just then a man with light silver hair and a long face came out of a glass office, his voice booming through the lobby.

“Benjamin Hanscom!” He came over and practically shoved Carol out of the way to take up Ben’s hands in his own. “Or is it Ben?” He was all smiles and Ben nodded in response.

“Yeah, Ben is good.”

“Perfect! Follow me!” He took Ben only somewhat forcefully by the arm and dragged him to the glass office he had emerged from. As the door closed behind him, Ben realized there was another man in there, a gaunt and tired looking gentleman sitting at the long conference table, a rolled up flag of paper set before his clasped hands. Ben looked between him and Brinkley nervously. But he went over and stuck his hand out to shake anyhow. “Ben Hanscom, sir.”

The man looked at his hand as if he’d never seen the gesture before and Ben swallowed hard. Then the man took his hand and didn’t shake so much as squeeze. “Birmingham. Isaiah Birmingham. Please.” He gestured across the table to one of the rolling office chairs. Ben turned, nodded, and went to it. He pulled his bag from his shoulder and sat it on the table. Then he waited.

Birmingham was staring at him with a fixed curiosity, reading the lines near his eyes like a paperback. Ben was nervous again and darted his eyes between Brinkley and the other.

“How old are you, boy?” Birmingham had a gristly voice, one that reminded him of a marble pestle on a stone mortar.

He sat forward in his seat. “Er, 25, sir.”

“Twenty...five?” He repeated, slower and Ben nodded. Birmingham raised his eyebrows, impressed it seemed.

“Married? Children?”

He thought of Beverly, her long ribbon red hair and freckles. He shook his head. “No sir.”

Birmingham and Brinkley looked at one another and Birmingham began to unravel the rolled up sheaf before him. “Just the stellar reputation that you may be one of the best architects in the country.”

“In the _world_.” Brinkley corrected and his partner nodded in agreement. He flattened out the paper, which Ben could now see was a blank piece of blueprint paper and placed a pencil he produced from his breast pocket in the center.

“So. Show us what you’re made of.” He waved his hands at the paper and then clasped them over his stomach.

Ben stood warily. “Sorry, sir?”

Brinkley took a drink from a coffee cup he’d left on the table before. “Build us a skyscraper.” He was smiling so hugely, all teeth, and Ben nodded.

He came around the table, his hands fidgeting and Birmingham rolled out of the way, watching him. He knew he should probably have some sort of agreement with these guys before he just “built them a skyscraper” but they were so intimidating and he felt like maybe this was a backwards interview. So he picked up the pencil and stared at the paper for a moment, thinking.

Somewhere across the world, he saw someone, a tall man, lanky and ginger haired, walking through a long glass tunnel, hot and steaming, like a greenhouse it seemed. But the tunnel itself was plated glass that seemed to fold over on each piece so that it became a dome. Ben and this other man looked at one another briefly. They regarded the other with peak confusion and curiosity, and Ben realized he was showing him the tunnel. The _tunnel_!

Ben looked down, back at the paper, no longer across an ocean, and he began to draw. It felt like he had the pencil pressed against the blueprint for hours, graphite coating the side of his hand until it began to smear on the paper, and he dusted it against the side of his pants, staining the khakis. He’d deal with it later. He was in the zone.

When he finished he realized a quick sweat had drawn on his brow and he went to wipe it away, leaving a black mark across his forehead. He looked up at them, panting slightly and waited for their approval or decline.

They both came up to look, and Ben stepped out of the way. They took a few minutes, whispering to each other and pointing, voices raising a few times and then back to normal. Twenty minutes passed and they stopped to look at him. He was on the far side of the table, rolling the pencil between his fingers.

Birmingham finally stood and rounded the table, his face never changing. Ben wondered absentmindedly if he needed a pint of something hard.

Birmingham stuck his hand out and Ben looked at it for a long while before taking it and giving it a firm shake.

“Congratulations, Mr. Hanscom. You’ve got the job.” He smiled then, a broad sincere smile and Ben could help but join him in it. The two suits began to laugh and he followed, so excited but a hundred percent unsure of what exactly the job was.

“I’m sorry, sirs, but what did I just design?” He asked when the laughing died a little, wiping his sweaty graphite inked hands on his jacket. Another stain to deal with later.

Brinkley came up and slapped Birmingham on the back. “My boy, you just designed the BBC Communications Centre.” Brinkley said and Ben felt his heart swell with excitement. Holy shit, he thought.

Birmingham looked from him to the sketch and back again. “Mr. Hanscom, people are going to be arguing whether this is a dream or an abortion for years to come.”

He led Ben to the office door, all the while Ben wondering how if it was an ‘abortion’ they could want to build it. They made some comments about getting a call in the next few days to finalize details and then shoved him towards the elevator, still dazed and exhilarated. He gave them a quick lackadaisical wave and then the elevator doors closed him in.

It was a full minute into his descent that Ben jumped in the air, thrusting his fist upwards. He gave a wild holler and pulled his mobile out to call his mother.

As he left the office building, his mother crying on the other end of the phone in excitement, he had no idea that the BBC Communications Centre was really just the glass tunnel that connected the adult library and the children’s library of Derry, Maine, stood on end.

  
“This is what a healthy brain looks like, see how the frontal lobes are two separate hemispheres?” The pale doctor pointed at a blue and white screen, his fingers running along a thick line between what formed what he referred to as the Corpus Callosum earlier. Eddie was laying pressed back against his private hospital bed, his hands folded neatly over his lap, his mother leaning dangerously over the opposite side of the bed to see the screen as well.

“And here is your brain,” the doctor clicked a button on a remote and a new screen came up. At first Eddie couldn’t see a difference but then the doctor traced the space where the line from before should be. Eddie pulled himself up on the bed and his mother put a heavy hand on his shoulder, shoving him back down.

“There’s no distinction here. The two hemispheres are merging together.” The doctor concluded.

“I knew it, I _knew_ it!” His mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together as if she’d just received wonderful news.

“Mom,” Eddie whispered.

“It’s called UFLS, or undifferentiated frontal lobe syndrome. It’s uh...” The doctor paused, taking his wire-rimmed glasses off to wipe them. “It’s not good.”

“What is the course of treatment?” Sonia Kaspbrak asked, a little too much excitement in her voice for Eddie’s taste.

He replaced his glasses and looked at her, then Eddie. “It’s a very aggressive surgery, where we go in the front of the skull,” he put his fingers gently against Eddie’s forehead, right above his eyes. Eddie flinched slightly. “And we cut try to cut away the growth.”

Everything he was saying made Eddie sick to his stomach. Cut into his brain? And then what? He just, goes on with life like normal? He looked at his shaking hands and then back up at the doctor. “And...without the surgery?”

He looked back down at him sympathetically. “The tissue will continue to metastasize and patients will experience a decline in mental capacities, they usually experience very intense audio and visual hallucinations, which come before memory loss, and soon after that a complete loss of identity. Concludes with...” A quick glance at his mother. “Death.”

“How long?” His mother asked, her voice suddenly quiet. He turned to her, frightened of the way she sounded. He reached for his inhaler on the side table and shoved it in between his teeth, pulling the trigger. God if only it were a gun, he thought. He set it aside, shaking hard now, and exhaled hard.

“Six months. A year at best.” The doctor’s voice was flat, unmoved.

“Well, thank you, doctor - “

“Dr. Gray,” he finished for her and she nodded. They both turned to Eddie expectantly and he swallowed, his mouth as dry as desert sand.

“I’d like to be alone.” He finally squeaked out.

“But Eddie - “

“Please mother!” He shouted at her and she took a step back, appalled. The doctor nodded at her and they both went to leave, Sonia placing a sloppy wet kiss on his cheek. As they closed the door behind them, he started hyperventilating, sobs wracking his body and he folded in on himself. With the late afternoon sun bleeding through the shuttered blinds, he fell into a light and dreamless sleep.

  
Beverly was sitting in the living room, her legs pulled up underneath her, her sketchbook laid out on her thighs. She was drawing the curve of a sleeve when she heard the front door into the foyer open and she snapped to attention. Tom waved briefly at her, in his hands a huge bouquet of roses. She smiled gently but when she turned away, she grimaced. She hated roses. He knew that.

“Hello, my love,” He said, kissing the top of her head. He placed the bouquet in her hands, the plastic crinkling in her grasp.

“They’re beautiful,” she lied. He did this sometimes...after. She stood to go to the kitchen, setting the sketchbook on the coffee table. He followed her and leaned against the island as she took a vase from the cabinet, setting it under the faucet.

“You’re beautiful,” He said, in far too good a mood it seemed. He turned towards the living room and then back. “And you’re sketching again.”

“Yes.” She said matter-of-factly, glancing up at him. He was leaning over the counter again, giving her “fuck me” eyes. It made her sick. She would do literally anything else. He made her physically ill. “What?” She said.

He rounded the island and came to her, pressing himself into her back and kissed her neck. She cringed away from it, but giggled to hide her discomfort. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve just missed you is all, you look so beautiful.” He murmured into her hair, his arms wrapping around her middle. She set down the vase and pushed on his arms, trying to break his hold.

“Tom, please,” she kept her voice light to keep his temper at bay. If she could just turn him down gently maybe it would be okay. “Not tonight.”

But he was insistent, kissing her and whispering in her ear but she couldn’t understand it. It was like a foreign language to her. What could he possibly be saying? She was pushing on his arms more forcefully now, squirming to try to break away from him. “Tom, please, stop.”

He was grabbing her now and bile was rising in her throat. She was going to throw up if he didn’t stop. Why wasn’t he stopping? “Tom!” She dug her fingernails into his arms and began to tear at the skin but that only seemed to make him more aggressive. “Tom! Stop it!”

She set her bare foot down hard on the toe of his loafer and he yelped, stumbling backwards, and she turned on her heel and brought her hand up and struck him across the face. She was fuming, panting hard from the struggle and tears spilling down her cheeks. She had hit him. Holy shit, she had hit him.

She looked around the room wildly, hoping - praying! - that one of the others were there. Fuck! She thought, her own voice screaming inside her head. But no one responded. How fucking inconvenient, she thought and she moved around the side of the island.

Tom was still holding his cheek where her palm had connected. He looked....amused. She stopped in her tracks and waited, hands on the marble counter top, breath coming in heaves. She swallowed the vomit that had risen to her mouth and spoke, her voice shaking.

“Tom?”

He looked at her, eyes wide and unbelieving. Then he came at her. He plunged his hand into her hair, pulling and ripping by the ends, not the roots, the _roots_ Tom _fuck_ , his face a completely recognizable smear of rage. She screamed and he slapped a hand over her mouth.

“You fucking hit me, you bitch!” He spat, saliva coating her face. She tried to pull away but he slammed her into the island, a bruise already beginning to form on the small of her back. “You fucking _hit_ me!”

She tried to twist her head so his grip on her hair was less but he wrapped it around his fist and tugged, making her cry out.

“Don’t you ever, _ever_ , do that again, do you hear me!” His nose was right on her’s and she felt his hot angry breath on her cheek. He was going to hit her, she was sure of it.

She had her eyes shut tight in anticipation, but nothing came. She wrenched her eyes open, lids fluttering in case he decided to do it then, but his hands were still over her mouth and in her hair. Her scalp was bleeding, she was sure of it.

His eyebrows were tied in a knot over the bridge of his nose, nostrils flaring and then, he let go. He released her in such a way that she was thrown once more into the island and she was sobbing, holding her head and her stomach. He brought his hand up slowly, not to hit her, she could see. He was looking at something.

Entangled in his fingers was a chunk of ratted crimson hair. He opened his fingers and let it fall on the floor, watching it float down in disgust. He looked at her in disdain and she looked back, waiting. Instead, he turned and stalked away, out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Beverly fell to her knees, picking up the hair with trembling fingers. It looked like it had come from someone else, not her. But as she touched the back of her head she felt tenderness.

That night, Tom didn’t come home. Thank god for small favors.

The next morning, she put on a dark pair of sunglasses, her tallest leather boots, and she went out of the house. It was twelve blocks from her flat but she didn’t care. She wanted to walk.

Thirty minutes later she walked into the small shop, took her sunglasses off, and looked around. It was quaint and familiar. It always smelled faintly of lavender and coconut oil, no matter what. She wondered how that could be. A small black woman with her hair in a twist of dreads on top of her head lit up when she saw her.

“Beverly! We’re ready for you, love.” She waved her finger in a ‘come here’ motion and Beverly followed.

The woman, Marina, took her to a chair and Bev sat in it, crossing one of her legs over the other. She was staring at her reflection, lips pursed. She looked hard and determined.

Marina wrapped a cape around her and clipped it at the back of her neck. She carefully toyed with the cascading red mess on Beverly’s head. “So how much today, love?” She asked, her voice lightly and fluffy.

Beverly looked at it for a moment and sighed. She was going to miss it. For a day or two.

She looked up at Marina in the mirror. Every ounce of hesitation was gone. “All of it.”

  
It was late, the moon high above the horizon. Crickets chirped outside the open window and on the air was the smell of coming summer. Bill couldn’t believe it was already halfway through April already, but here was another full moon, like a beacon. He was sitting in the office, a small box of a room just off the main hallway, staring at his computer in the dark. He had his feet propped up on the desk, his chin resting between his fingers. He had his manuscript open on the laptop but he hadn’t typed anything in an hour and half. He was too distracted. And the first deadline was almost here.

Eddie lay wide awake, staring at the hospital’s cardboard plaster ceiling. The nurses had finally told his mother to leave around 9 o’clock so he could sleep but he’d found it impossible to do. He was sure she was fast asleep in the waiting room, snoring with her head tilted back and glasses hanging around her neck by a jeweled chain. He watched the monitor as his heart rate beeped across it, slow and steady. He sighed. He plunged his hands under the pillow, trying to be nonchalant as he grabbed his cell phone. One of the nurses had snuck it in for him while his mother was in the restroom and he was eternally grateful. But that nurse had not come back since then. He wondered if his mother had her taken off his service.

He pulled the phone out, woke it up, and pulled up safari.

Bill leaned into the desk, sliding the mouse over to the chrome extension and pulled it up. He didn’t know why he was doing it, he only knew he had to.

Eddie’s fingers moved slowly across the keyboard. D-a-n-n-y T-o-r-r-a-n-c-e. He hit send.

He couldn’t get the man from Ralph’s out of his head all of a sudden, and he had this notion that his name was Torrance. Where did he get that from? Bill typed the name into the search bar and hit enter.

A litany of links came up. None of them were positive looking. Eddie was sitting in a leather office chair, scrolling through the first page of google results.

_Torrance wanted in relation to terrorism in Iran. Domestic terrorist Torrance escapes police custody in Detroit. Witnesses claim Torrance the active shooter in recent Augusta attacks._

Bill sat up a little in the hospital bed, barely noticing the paper thin sheets over his legs, staring at the cell phone screen. How could this be?

He settled into the office chair, sighing. Torrance, if that’s who he was, would be no help, Bill thought sadly.

Eddie set the phone screen down on his chest. Why did he think that Torrance could have been any help? He had made it seem like...Eddie rubbed his eyes. It didn’t matter. He was a wanted man.

Bill set his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes, sighing. Who was this fucking guy? Why was he in Derry?

And what did he want with them?

  
It was a hot day for mid-April, Mike thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow as he trudge up the hill. Yeah, he was going to the Lookout again. He felt like it was moot at this point but he had a feeling that today would be different somehow. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt good.

As he came to the top of the hill, he sighed. The meadow was blooming on full blast, a vibrant array of colors. It was beautiful and it made the feeling of luck stronger. He practically waltzed out into the field, went to his spot and sat down.

  
Beverly was chopping carrots at the counter, humming along to the radio playing softly on top of the refrigerator. There was a lick of breeze against the back of her neck, her hair now clipped into a fine pixie cut. After Marina had rinsed and run her hands through it with some styling gel, it had curled up, little bouncing ringlets that defied gravity it seemed. And she was absolutely in love with it.

The front door opened and she looked up briefly. She should be worried, afraid even, but here she was, humming to a tune she only somewhat knew the words to, not giving a fuck. She was on top of the world. She guessed what Marina always said about the right haircut was correct.

Tom rounded the corner out of the living room and into the kitchen and he stopped dead in his tracks.

Beverly looked up at him, knife poised in her hand.

“Hello, love.”

  
Mike was rubbing the petals of a pale cream bloodroot between his fingers when he heard footfall rustle through the grass behind him. He smiled to himself. He knew today would be the day.

He turned, hoping it would be the boy from Israel, excited and expectant of his wide-eyed expression of confusion and maybe a twinge of fear, but of course not doubting it could be one of the others. Instead, there at the edge of the clearing was Henry Bowers.

“Oh,” Mike said, and the word was pulled away on the wind.

  
Tom stared at her, his mouth ajar. Beverly’s heart did pick up a little but it may have just been residual nerves. But his face looked so reminiscent of times past.

“What is it, Tom?” Her voice was stern but soft. She didn’t want to convey hostility.

He coughed. “Your hair.”

  
Mike stood quickly, fists curled.

“What are you doing here, Henry?” He said, his voice even. He couldn’t let him think he was shaken.

Henry kicked at the flowers and grasses as he trudged forward. Mike didn’t move, he just watched him come.

“I wanted to see what kind of gay shit you were doing up here. Maybe I beat your loverboy to the punch.” Henry had a disgusting smirk on his face. Mike’s mind went to the temple, to _him_.

“Henry get out of here.”

  
Beverly set the knife down carefully on the cutting board and dusted her hands on her pants.

“What about it?” She asked. He was walking towards her slowly, each step stuttering along, like he’d forgotten how to use his legs.

“W-why did you do that?” He said, his voice low. Practically a growl.

She tossed her head back, forgetting she no longer had the long hair to flip over her shoulders. “Because I wanted to.”

  
“Henry, fuck off, I don’t have time for this.” Mike looked around, wondering if maybe he’d brought company, but it looked like it was just him.

Henry shrugged. “Good thing I didn’t ask if you had time for it. You insulted me. You have to pay for that shit.”

  
“You cut your hair without asking me?” Tom said, coming the edge of the island, setting his hand there.

She laughed. “I’m 25 years old, Tom, I don’t need to ask you every time I want to do something.” She was being too bold but something about it made her feel strong.

  
“Henry, I’m not dealing with you today. Just leave and this won’t have to escalate.” Mike was trying to be polite, but anger was building in his voice. He couldn’t hold it back. He didn’t want to.

Henry laughed. He didn’t have a knife, it seemed, unlike him. He would have been brandishing it already if he’d brought it. “No, this needs settled. And we’re doing it now.” He had closed the space between them down to three feet.

  
Tom was only feet away from her now, his face turning purple with rage. She took a short step back, but then brought herself up straight and as tall as she could, all 160 centimeters of her.

“You did something...without asking me.” Tom said through gritted teeth. “You know better than to do that. Now...now I’m angry.” He said.

“Tom, you can’t do anything, I don’t have to ask you - “

Henry was inches away from him. Mike’s heart was struggling to slow down, but even through the pounding, he wasn’t afraid.

“Henry, fuck off, this is the last time I’m going to say - “

Tom lifted his hand, and swung.

Henry pulled his fist back, feet planted and swung.

Beverly lifted her hand to stop the blow and then Mike was grabbing Tom’s wrist, twisting it. Tom screamed and Beverly dropped it, looking at her own two hands with confusion. She turned and looked and Mike was twisting Henry’s wrist. _Holy shit_.

Tom looked at her, holding his wrist in his other hand. She took a step back and bumped against the stovetop, the bruise on her tailbone flaring in red hot pain. Tom’s eyes were bloodshot, crazed.

“Oh now you’re going to get it bitch!”

Henry was stumbling backwards and Mike blinked around the open kitchen. Where the hell was he? He looked at Beverly and understood. She was one of them.

Henry stood back up fully and shook his wrist, but it was clearly hurting him. Mike knew he would come back anyhow, and he raised his own fists. He could see Tom rushing at Beverly, Henry rushing at him and he raised his fist, pulled it back, and launched it into Henry’s face, Beverly’s fist following suit right into Tom’s nose, blood spurting out like a fountain. But both Tom and Henry were completely unfazed and they came back, fists swinging and Beverly dodged them both, pulling to the side, Mike moving through her. Then Mike grabbed Henry, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and throwing him to the ground, Beverly throwing Tom into the counter, knocking over the cutting board and an array of pots and pans she had pulled out. Chopped carrots scattered on the floor and Beverly gasped, watching Henry slam into the meadow, crushing flowers underneath him. Beverly, or was it Mike, climbed on top of Tom where he lay on the floor, trying to gather his senses and she punched him, screaming with every hit, once, Tom’s jaw cracked under her hand, twice, Henry spit blood out on the grass, a third time, and both of them lay there, not moving.

Mike grabbed Henry by the collar of his shirt and Beverly did the same with Tom. It was like they were one being, looking through both sets of eyes simultaneously.

“If you ever - “

“Come near me again, I’ll - “

“Fucking kill you.”

Beverly climbed off of Tom, groaning and squirming on the floor, suddenly too aware of what she had done. What _they_ had done.

She stumbled over the scattered kitchen items and ran to the living room. She was panting and looking around the room for, what the fuck was she looking for? and there it was on the armchair, her purse. She snatched it up, pulling the keys out of it and her mobile phone and turned to see if Tom was getting up. He wasn’t. She rushed, barefoot, to the front door and out, slamming it behind her.

Mike was standing over Henry, who wasn’t moving but wasn’t having a terribly difficult time spitting slurs at him.

He looked down at his hands. They were covered with blood, the knuckles already starting to bruise. He stumbled around a moment and then began to run, down the hill, through the brambles and trees, down the path away from the Lookout, away from Henry, away from whatever else had happened up there.

As he spilled out at the bottom of the hill he was suddenly in a street, high buildings around him and down the sidewalk a little ways, Beverly was hailing a taxi.

She looked and there was Mike, panting as if he’d just run a long distance. She was shaking and now could see that he was too. She was terrified of what she, they, had just done. But all of a sudden...she started to laugh.

She was laughing. Why the hell was she laughing? But he watched her, and she had this look of what seemed like genuine humor on her face and he started to laugh too.

They laughed together for what seemed like millennia, Mike’s eyes closing tight as he did so, and when the laughter finally died in his throat, he opened them, only to find that he was all alone, deep inside the forest.


	6. Part V: What’s Going On?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much on your patience for this chapter and I am pleased to say it’s finally here!
> 
> I’ve created a playlist of songs I think work well with this fic, songs mentioned on ‘sense8’, or just songs that make me think of the Losers! Check it out!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/21zte2rrzkqluw6vofpqbftoy/playlist/7nSCVPYelqEmChwXsnwuVn?si=X_dV5rOKTwyHL6iK3gagEw

It was barely midnight, clouds having drifted over the waning moon to dapple the cobbled street. The backdoor of FUBAR slammed open, hitting the brick wall with such a force that a resounding _crack_ echoed down the alley. Richie tossed his sweat dripping hair out of his face, glasses threatening to fly off of his nose. From his back pocket he produced a smashed pack of cigarettes, only three left inside, and he pulled one out, setting it between his teeth. With a quick flick of his lighter, he inhaled, taking it as deep as he could. He ran a hand through his messy mop of black curls, looking up at the sky.

Somewhere inside, Peter was spending money he didn't have on people he didn't know. It was his ritual. He didn't seem to notice, but Richie did. He realized that whenever they were about to do something stupid, Peter would spend the entirety of the days before celebrating - drinking, smoking, the works. He once even bought an engagement ring for a girl named Greta, convinced he wouldn't survive the weekend. He had, and had to avoid the east part of the city for the better part of a year.

The reason he was celebrating this time was because he had, drunkenly he admitted to Richie after, said they would participate in a fight. Richie had stood there almost incredulous, and then shrugged.

"I could use some blood on my knuckles." He'd said.

Now he was standing outside of this background nightclub, putting down his fifth cigarette in two hours, trying to mentally prepare. He stared hard at the clouds, as if the squinting of his eyes might persuade them to move. There was no breeze tonight so they listed lazily across the sky, blotting out what little stars could peek through over the lights of the city.

He and Peter had been friends for what seemed like millennia. They met in a park when Richie was nine and Peter was eight, and Richie had, as he would put it even to this day, been getting his shit kicked. There had been some older boys that liked to pick on Richie, for his glasses and also for the fact that he was, as they put it, a faggot. When he turned 17, he told Peter they were, "half right".

That particular day when Peter had stumbled across Richie, his glasses cracked in the grass and his mouth filled with dirt, he hadn't hesitated. Eight-year-old Peter Vogel had picked up a branch that had broken off one of the flowering Linden trees, easily half his own weight, and hit the one who was holding Richie down square over the back of the head. He'd practically been thrown over, and thank god too, Richie had been struggling to breathe. It took a few moments before he could catch his bearings and place his shattered glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He had squinted at this random kid, one of his eyes already starting to swell from the initial punch that had broken his spectacles and coughing to clear the dirt from his mouth. Peter had turned the branch on the other boys, a couple of 13-year-olds, spinning in some sort of helicopter motion and they had scattered, sprinting towards the woods, holding their arms and stomachs, leaving their leader, some fat kid named Lukas, to wallow on the ground, clutching his head and screaming. They hadn't waited around much longer, Peter dragging Richie off the ground and they bolted in the opposite direction, making their escape.

From there on they were the best of friends.

Richie looked up, inhaling deeply off of his cigarette. He wondered if any of the others could see the moon whereas he could not. He closed his eyes, tried to reach out to them, call out to them, see someone. He felt himself pulling farther and farther away, out up over the city, letting himself be taken somewhere, anywh-

“Richie!” His name boomed in his ear and he stumbled, scraping his palm against the stucco siding of the building and dropping his cigarette. It tumbled from his mouth and sizzled out in a puddle of beer, or vomit, he couldn’t be sure. He stared at it for a moment, as if he had no idea what it was. He turned and there was Peter, swaying on his feet with a pale blonde girl under his arm. He was watching Richie confusedly, his eyes wide and unblinking.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked, laughter in his voice.

Richie looked around at the empty alley then back at Peter. “Not a fucking thing.” He laughed and the girl looked up from her phone and smiled brightly. She let her eyes drift from Richie to Peter and back again, licking her lips.

“Well come back inside, we’re trying to celebrate!” He nodded towards the door and Richie followed, pulling the girl under his arm so she was sandwiched between the two of them. She let a soft giggle escape her lips and Richie and Peter exchanged a look, eyebrows raised.

As they let the heavy iron door come closed behind them, a quick breeze picked up through the alley.

  
The train rocked gently from one side to the other, Beverly waking from a dead sleep and she pulled herself up in her seat. She looked around wildly, half-expecting Tom to be standing over her, fists clenched and fuming. But there was no one, except a few other passengers in various stages of sleep in the car. She let herself relax, straightening the fabric of her pants.

She was headed northbound, through mountains and valleys, towards Amsterdam. After she’d left the house, she’d run, feet bare and cut up from loose gravel and broken glass until a taxi pulled up next to her. She’d told the petite man driving to take her to the _gare d’Orléans_. The drive had been quick and when she got out at the station, she wondered where she could possibly go.

Tom would chase her, she knew that. And with Kay still in Chicago, she couldn’t exactly hide in the city. He would stop at nothing to find her. So, she had gone to the ticket counter and told the woman she wanted the earliest train out of Orléans. It happened to be the one to Amsterdam, a three and a half hour ride. She’d bought the ticket, and now she was here.

She looked at her feet, cold and bare still - she’d received some strange looks from the ticket inspector - and wiggled her toes. It brought some life back into them and she sighed, looking out the window. The moon was waning, threatening to shrink even smaller, till it was barely a glowing thumbnail over the clouds. On the horizon the sun would, in a few hours, try to pull up, but for now the sky was still a deep navy at the crest of the sky. By the time she reached the Netherlands, it would be attempting to lighten near the bottom of the mountain line, to wash in reds and soft violets. She leaned her head against the glass, letting its cool feel stifle a headache brewing between her temples. She watched as the dim outlines of the mountains dipped and rose, dipped and rose. She wondered, far away, an almost involuntary thought, where Tom was right at that moment. She shoved the feeling aside and took a series of deep breaths. He couldn’t know where she was going...right?

She had been the only person in her row when she sat down nearly an hour and a half ago, the two seats facing her and across the aisle empty. But now she felt a presence, like someone had come and sat across from her. She felt her heart quicken just so and keeping her forehead against the glass, turned her eyes over.

In the seat closest to the aisle, was a curly-haired man, tight dirty blond ringlets flush against his temples. His brown eyes, careful and doe-like were peering over a book at her, the bridge of his nose just barely visible over the tome’s cover. Beverly sat up a little, smiling at him. He slowly brought the book down, studying her, curious. She had no name to give him, yet, but an image of high up stained glass windows and a star...a star? flashed through her mind.

She returned his gaze, taking in his details. He had a contradictory face, soft in the texture but jutting in its angles. He was pale, sturdy, put together. Beverly realized he was wearing pajamas and even those were entirely too neat, even for sleep. The book he had placed in his lap was, from what she could tell, an encyclopedia in a language her mind whirled around, tried to compute, but faltered. He placed a finger, long and thin, between the pages of his place and closed the book.

They cocked their heads at one another, still not speaking. She wondered if it would end like it had with the other one, what was _his_ name? It had started with an ‘R’ right? But then he spoke, his voice grazing out barely above a whisper.

At first the words were warbled, and she realized it was because he wasn’t speaking French or any other language she’d heard before, no... it was... Hebrew, she thought.

“Where are you going?” His voice came out much deeper than she had originally anticipated, even in the whisper, and she started a little at it. She gave a quick glance around at the other passengers, all asleep, and turned back to him, putting her elbows on her thighs so she could lean in closer.

“Amsterdam.” She replied, feeling silly speaking to what she could only equate to an apparition.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, taking a moment to glance around the train. “From where?” He said, but he knew the answer already, as if it had been whispered in his ear before she could answer. “France?”

She nodded, pulling her legs up into her seat. She watched as his eyes fell over her feet, his face twisting up in disgust at the blood and mud that caked them. She self-consciously covered them with her hands, which she also realized now were bruised and bloody. Tom’s blood. She shivered.

“Are you real?” He asked, leaning towards her slightly.

She giggled, a stifled sound, and nodded. “Are you?”

He nodded in return and tucked a leg cleanly over the other. They sat in designated silence for another moment, each completely comfortable in it, then she spoke again, curiosity taking over.

“What time is it where you are?” Another image was pushing but had yet to let itself in, like he was focusing on hiding it from her. Maybe where he was.

He looked to his right, at nothing it seemed and she realized maybe he was looking at a clock. “A little after 5.”

“In the morning? Why are you awake?” She asked, a smile in her voice. He was only an hour ahead of her.

He shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

That quieted them again, the gentle rumbling of the train on the tracks filling the space between them. They breathed together as one being it seemed, and Beverly felt herself relaxing. He had settled into the seat, which he was both sitting and technically not sitting in, looking fairly comfortable.

“What’s in Amsterdam?” He said after a long while. She’d begun to drift off again and his voice brought her back.

She sighed and shifted in her seat, trying not to look directly at him. “Nothing, just...” she paused. “It’s _away_ , I guess.”

It was then she looked up at him and his face was calm, understanding.

“From him.” He said it plainly, no confusion or question. She nodded. She wasn’t sure how this all worked yet but she worked out that of course, of course he knew already. They were one and the same weren’t they?

She began to peel back the bits of skin around her fingernails, an awful habit she noticed only came out when she didn’t want to make eye contact with someone. He watched her for a minute, her not noticing the frustration building in his throat, and then suddenly he reached out and put his hand over hers. Her head jerked up, and she felt the muscles in her neck loosen at his morose expression.

He only nodded, his chest rising and falling, the train jostling only her back and forth - he was stock still in a chair or his bed somewhere across the countryside - and she closed her eyes to him, a quick smile drawing across her mouth.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes again, she was alone in her row once more, and the sun was pulling up over the city as the train sped to its final destination.

  
Eddie awoke to sunlight flooding in through the window, his eyes fluttering as they tried to adjust to sudden change. He ended up having to hold a hand up to block out a shaft of light hitting him square in the face. A nurse was staring out over the city, her pink scrubs dull even in the sun and her hands were still scrunched up around the heavy grey curtains. Eddie's head rolled and he looked over at the bedside table, the clock reading a red and stale 10:18 am. He was surprised it hadn't been his mother waking him up and significantly earlier too. He was aching all over, a stiff numbness tingling his legs and arms.

"Morning, Mr. Kaspbrak!" The nurse said, turning. She began to busy herself with his sheets, flattening and pulling back the top comforter. Eddie tried to pull himself up a little farther in the bed, looking around as if to gather his thoughts. His mother wasn't even in the room and he couldn't hear her outside in the hallway. Where was she?

"Where is my mom?" He asked, his voice gravelly from sleep. The nurse didn’t look at him, instead went to the end of the bed and took up his chart.

“Excuse me?” Eddie said. “My mom, is she here?”

The nurse was skimming her finger down the chart and mumbling something as she read, her eyebrows cinched together. “She’s letting you rest.”

“I’ve been asleep for nearly ten hours.” He responded, his voice harder than he intended. But the nurse only smiled, finally looking at him.

“Yes well, she knows this surgery is going to be intense and she wants to make sure you get as much sleep as you can beforehand.”

Eddie sat up, his eyes wide. “The surgery?” He had never exactly agreed to it...but he supposed his mother would have wouldn’t she? Even though he was a grown man she controlled every aspect of his life.

He supposed that was because of his father, in the long run. When he died, Eddie had been just a kid. His mother said it had been cancer, lung cancer, right? God it was so long ago now. Where he had worked there’d been asbestos or black mold or something in the walls and a lot of people had got sick, at least six died, and quickly too. In the spans of five months, those six people felt shitty, got sick, got worse, and died, and his father had been one of them.

Apparently shortly after the fifth person died - Ron Shumer, a man with three daughters and a fourth on the way - it had come out that the company, called Adjunct Inc., knew the walls were filled with poison and did nothing to warn their employees or take care of the issue. The deaths probably could have been swept under the rugs in some sort of small settlement way, but then Frank Kaspbrak fell ill. In less time than even Mr. Shumer, he was dead, leaving his wife a widow and his son, tiny Eddie, fatherless. Sonia had become insane with justice but she never cried. Eddie always thought that strange, that she didn’t shed one tear through any of the funeral or the legal proceedings.

His mother went on a tirade that lasted three months, and dragged every single one of the families through the trial with her. She’d hired some big fancy lawyer to represent them, and he threw Adjunct in the mud and smashed their faces in until they were digging their own graves. In the end, 27 corporate bigwigs were fired, and the six families, the Kaspbraks included, walked away with 7.1 million dollars each.

From there Eddie’s fate was set in stone. His mother became a hawk, watching every runny nose or cough with fantastic clarity, afraid that perhaps her special boy, her fragile boy, delicate little Eddie, might get sick and leave her too. It became almost a game to her and by the time he was 15, she was taking twisted pleasure in it. She saw illness and disease in everything and had him trapped long before he graduated high school. He always had whatever he needed, money was no issue, so he didn't need a job, how could he? And she controlled all of the money, so how could he leave?

“It says on your chart that you're scheduled for," she perused the chart again, not bringing it all the way up to her face, instead holding it at arm's length and squinting at it, "An extended bifrontal craniotomy. Says a little tweaking in the procedure." She shrugged, like it wasn't that big of a deal. Eddie shivered.

"Tweaking?" He asked.

The nurse shrugged again, coming around the left side of the bed and pouring him a glass of water. He took it greedily from her and gulped it down. She smiled, as if hearing her own private joke. He made a choking sound as he finished the glass, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"It doesn't specify, unfortunately." She smiled weakly and placed a cold hand on his arm.

"When?" He said, jerking involuntarily away from her touch. "When?" Each time he said it, his voice got a little more high pitched. He was starting to feel his throat shrink to that deadly pinhole size. He searched frantically on the bedside table for his inhaler, his hands shaking as he nearly toppled over the pitcher of water sat on it. He finally found it, pulling the cap off and shoving the mouthpiece between his lips. He gasped it up, holding the synthetic air in his lungs for a few seconds and then exhaling.

Through this the nurse waited, semi patiently. "Within the next few days. Dr. Gray will give us the final go ahead."

As if summoned, the door to the private room creaked open, Dr. Gray entering with a manila folder in his hands. His glasses were sliding down his nose. Eddie pulled the paper thin sheet up a little closer to his chest, feeling very naked all of a sudden.

"Good morning, Edward." Dr. Gray said when he finally looked up. He went to the screen where they had looked at the scans of Eddie's brain before and shoved a new scan into the slot, reaching to the side and clicking the monitor on. Eddie swallowed hard and tried to relax. He was a doctor, and he was only there to help. Then again, he'd thought the same of his mother.

The monitor began to make a low metallic hum as it blinked into life and a new image appeared on it through the film. "I've got some news," Dr. Gray said, shoving a hand into the pocket of his long white coat. Eddie watched him, the tightness in his lungs receding, but his heart still pounding.

He watched as Dr. Gray traced his finger over the now all-too familiar mass that was his own brain. "The growth is becoming more pronounced now," he said, looking at him briefly. "The two hemispheres have almost completely merged. We're going to have to move your surgery up."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, Eddie's chest seizing up completely. A ringing filled his ears. _We're going to have to move your surgery up_. Move it up from when to when? How soon were they going to cut into his brain?

"When?" He said for the third time today, looking quickly between the nurse, who was pretending to be busy messing with his IV, and Dr. Gray, who was wiping his glasses on the edge of his coat. He gave him tired, sympathetic eyes.

"Earliest will have to be Thursday. That will give you time to prepare and," he paused, placing a heavy hand on Eddie's shoulder. "Make appropriate arrangements."

_Arrangements_? What the hell was that supposed to mean? For a second an image, a _word_ , moreover, flashed through his mind - lobotomy. Lobotomy. Why was that what he was thinking? His face scrunched up and he stared off, past Dr. Gray.

"You're going to lobotomize me..." he whispered, realization dawning on him.

"Excuse me?" Dr. Gray's response choked in his throat.

Eddie finally looked up and caught the doctor's eye. "This is a lobotomy, isn't it?" His voice shook.

Dr. Gray smiled, laughed even. "Don't be ridiculous, Edward, this isn't a -"

"You're going to cut into my brain, cut _into_ it," Eddie was becoming frantic, pulling himself up into a ball at the head of the bed, smashing himself farther back into the pillows. He felt the nurse's hand on his arm, pulled away, looked between her and Dr. Gray with wide, terrified eyes. "You're going to kill me."

The nurse's hands were more firm on him now, holding him in place. "Mr. Kaspbrak, calm down -"

"No!" He scrambled away, throwing himself off the bed and into Dr. Gray, who toppled backwards a few feet. "No I'm not going to let you do it! I do not _consent_!" He pulled forward and felt the IV yank in his arm, wincing in pain.

"Jack!" The nurse called, to whom?, Dr. Gray was still catching himself, fixing his glasses which had fallen askew.

Eddie's bare feet slipped a little on the linoleum and he tried to catch his balance, just as a huge man in blue scrubs came into the room. Sure, he was small and sometimes fast, but this guy was far too big to get past. He tried anyway, thrusting his whole body towards the space under Jack's outstretched arm, but it was too short a distance and his reactions were still slow from having just woken up. Jack scooped him up, and he cursed his small stature as he was pinned back on the bed, screaming and cursing as his arms were held down and a needle as sharp as a bramble thorn was pressed into the muscle of his right arm.

As the medicine swam through his bloodstream, his cries for help growing dimmer and dimmer, Dr. Gray came back to the side of the bed to loom over him. The room began to grow dark, his vision fading and fuzzing at the edges. Right before he was washed over by chemical sleep, Eddie could have sworn he saw Dr. Gray...smiling at him.

  
Silver's handlebars were still a little bent from the collision with the steel guardrail above the canal, but Bill had finally got the tires spinning again. It had taken him a few days, Audra helping whenever she could, handing him tools or bringing him a beer or two, but he got it done. He had completely pushed the novel aside, calling his agent and explaining there were some "personal" issues going on at home and he needed to refocus. His agent, a curt man by the name of Arthur Denkar, said he should go see a marriage counselor if he was going to let his "personal" issues interfere with his work and hung up, but Bill didn't care. The story would still be there tomorrow and so would Denkar, no matter how angry he seemed on the phone.

The air was warm as he biked through town, just trying to clear his head. It was just past noon and the streets were clear of most traffic and he rolled down the side roads of Derry with ease. He knew the city well, having grown up, left, and then come back here. He’d wanted to come back nearly on a whim, feeling like his writing might, what was the word he used to convince Audra, _flourish_ , among the broken street lamps and crumbling buildings of his childhood home. She’d initially thought it might be because he missed his parents, but he wasn’t very close with them. He hadn't been ever since he was a kid and...well, since his brother died. Georgie.

George Denbrough was six years old when the minivan his father was driving was struck by a drunk driver, his mother asleep in the passenger's seat, ten year old Bill beside him. It had been late, they had been heading back from their aunt's house, the roads were fine, there was no rain, or snow, traffic was light. They had only been unlucky.

Bill didn't like to think about it too much, it just hurt. But it was always there, prodding in the back of his mind. He still couldn't ride in cars for extended periods of time, instead opting to ride his bike when he could. And afterwards, in the years before he graduated high school and moved away, Bill's parents drifted farther and farther away from each other and from...him. Why he wanted to come back to a place where he was a stranger in his childhood home was still beyond him. It had just felt right. And Audra had been so supportive. She joked with him about it, sure, but she was more than willing to go anywhere that Bill wanted to.

He took a few left turns on the crumbling pavement roads, a right, then another left, two more rights, just taking in the sights of the city, the boarded up shops, new street names. He took a right onto a road that led into the old trailer park, its old box houses set up in a dingy row. He went past them where the road came to a dead end, a large empty field to his left and a dilapidated old house to his right. He turned Silver's handlebars sharply and they caught a little in the turn, the bend in the bars making it choke and he nearly toppled off. As he picked himself up a little bit, he tried to catch his breath and looked around. He wasn't as young as he used to be, even at 25.

"Bill!" His name came from the direction of the house and his head snapped to attention. There, across the little front yard in front of the falling apart Victorian building was the man from Ralph's, Torrance, right?, leaning against the collapsing railing of the front porch. Bill tried not to fall over. How was he here now? Was he following him?

The man, Danny, stood up straight and dusted off his shirt sleeves and then made his way through the broken remnants of the front doorway. Bill let Silver fall to the ground, his heart racing in his chest. He was really there, wasn't he? Bill tripped over the bike a little as he made his way to the house. Maybe he could get some answers now.

Inside the house, Danny was no where to be seen, and Bill gave himself a moment to look around, his eyes growing wide as he took it all in. The house was falling apart, rain and wind damage apparent in the scatter of shingles and broken glass. There was also evidence in the scorched wallpaper that the house had once caught fire. In the living room, or what might have been the living room he wasn't sure, the ceiling had collapsed above and the floor below, so that if one stood in the basement they might be able to look out onto the sky. There was a sound from below and Bill jumped a little. He had to be down there, Bill thought. He went down the main hallway, hoping there might be some open doorway that led down so he wouldn't spend 20 minutes searching. The floor sagged dangerously under his feet as he went, so he stepped gingerly.

There was a door to his right off of the kitchen and Bill could hear creaking and scuffling below. Danny had to be down there. Bill hesitated, his shaking hands resting on the doorjamb as he decided whether or not to go down the stairs...if they were even safe to go down.

"Stop thinking about it and just come down, son!" He heard Danny call from below, his voice echoing around the cavern of the basement.

Bill swallowed hard and cleared his throat, taking the first stair slowly. It gave a little under his weight but remained intact. He took the rest of them slowly, every step making him more nervous. Towards the bottom there were two or three stairs that had broken away, shattered in the middle as if someone had put too much pressure on them all at once. He would have to skip them, he decided and with a deep breath, he jumped down, landing hard on top of broken glass and charred wood. He gave a quick look around and there was Danny, looking up through the makeshift skylight towards the springtime sun.

He knew this place, he _knew_ it, and he nearly stumbled backwards with the vision as it flooded into him. Mother, laying on the ground, her body crumpled up and broken on the ground, here, it was here that she was taken, the floor splattered with her blood. He had been _born_ here - was that the right word? - here on the ground in a burned out and falling down house not fifteen minutes from where he slept every night with Audra.

"This," he choked, looking across the floor, trying to pinpoint the exact place, maybe see the pool of blood. But there was nothing. His eyes were filling with tears and his chest was seizing up like he was struggling not to cry. "This is where..." He caught the man's eye.

"You," Bill said, breathless.

Danny turned and looked at him, his wild brown hair flipping around his face from some unfelt breeze. "Me?" He replied.

Bill took a tentative step towards him, his heart still beating at 100 miles an hour. "You're really here?" He didn't take his eyes off of him, just in case he tried to make a run for it. But Danny shook his head slowly.

"I'm not. I just came to see you."

Mind whirling, Bill cleared his throat. "Where are you then?"

"The Great White North," Danny smiled.

"How did you find me?" Bill was pacing around him now, giving him a wide berth, glass and god knows what else crunching under his feet.

Danny was following him with his eyes patiently. "You're asking a lot of questions but none of the ones you actually want to. What happened to all of the things you wanted to know when you saw me at Ralph's?"

"I found out some things on you," Bill said, ignoring him. "You were the shooter in Augusta, weren't you?" He wasn't angry, he realized, or even afraid. He was just curious.

Danny sighed. "There are a lot of things going on right now that you might not understand -"

"Then help me understand!" Bill responded, standing only feet away from him.

"In time, son." He cocked his head. "What _else_ do you want to know?"

Bill sighed and looked around, his eyes falling anywhere but on Danny. "How did I learn your name?" He said. "You didn't have the time to introduce yourself to me last time." He crossed his arms over his chest. It was cooler in the basement.

Danny snorted. "That would be one of your brothers. He met me here." _Here_ was said with such obvious indignation that Bill could only assume he meant 'The Great White North' - Canada.

"Brothers?" Bill repeated. He supposed it made sense, he had been calling the woman who died here - even though now there seemed to be no proof of it - as Mother.

Danny nodded. "You have six other selves now."

Bill's eyes widened. "Six?"

This is where Danny turned away, walking across the room to stand in the shadows by a long-dead coal furnace. "Yes, six." But he paused, like he was struggling to say something else. "Your mother..."

"Mother?" Bill was having a difficult time putting everything he wanted to say into full sentences.

"There are usually eight sensates in a cluster...but your Mother...." he paused again. "She was taken before the last was born."

Bill felt a heaviness in his heart for this unknown eighth; he could have had another brother or sister. "I saw it happen. Right here." Danny nodded.

"I was...incapacitated when it happened, but when I came back, I felt it all. It was like having my chest split open and my lungs torn out." Bill felt a pain in his own chest, and he knew he was feeling the memory of it.

"Are you one of my cluster?" He didn't know what the word truly meant yet. It felt foreign in his mouth.

Danny chuckled softly. "No, I'm not. I was part of your Mother's cluster."

"How does it work?" Bill asked.

"There's a lot of science involved, and that's too much to explain right now."

"But I -"

"I know, you want to know. In time." He came back over to Bill until he was within touching distance.

"So what is this then? If you aren't part of my cluster, how are we?" Bill asked.

Danny looked at his fingers. "We are visiting, in so many words. It can only be done between members of different clusters through eye-to-eye contact. It's done instinctively inside of clusters."

Bill shook his head, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes so hard he was seeing spots. "Jesus that's confusing."

"Yes it is. At first. But it will become easier to understand as you become stronger."

"So then what about when I find myself in strange places? Or I see cities I've never been to?" Bill asked, going to lean against the wall, sliding down it until he was in a crouching position.

"Sharing," Danny said, watching him with a strange blissful curiosity. "It can only be done inside clusters."

"A lot of the same confusing words, man." Bill said, struggling. What was the point of all of this? Why was _he_ experiencing this?

"I know. I wish I could help you understand. But perhaps the only way to understand," He leaned down, pulling Bill's chin up so that they were staring into one another's eyes. His hand was definitely there, he could feel his fingers squeezing gently into his skin, but he also felt...not there. "Is to experience it."

Bill tried to search his eyes, his mind whirling. "What do I have to do? How do I understand? Danny -"

"You are strong, Bill. I know you can do this." His eyes were soft and pleading.

"You want me to do something? What? I -" Danny nodded.

"One of your brothers is about to be eliminated. Eddie. You need to find him and stop it from happening."

"But I -"

"You don't have much time. I've given you very little, I know, but there is nothing more I can do for you now. You have to save him."

"Save him? I -" But Danny was gone, and Bill was cowering alone on the rotted concrete floor of the house. "Danny!" He scrambled to his feet, spinning in circles, trying to find him. The room was empty except for him, sunlight dappling the floor through shards of floorboard above.

  
Stan leaned over, picking up one of his soft brown loafers and placing it on his foot, beginning to knot the laces. "I told you, I've been going whenever I can." He was focusing on twisting the lace under itself, over, under, up and around.

"We've just missed you is all," Andrea, his mother said. She was leaning against the wall opposite him, watching.

Stan sighed. The knot looked too loose and he untied it to try again. "No I understand, I've missed you too. I've just been distracted and whatnot. What with the magazine waiting on photographs and everything else..." He let 'everything else' hang in the air. Of course he meant the hallucinations, but she didn't need to know that.

"Are they pushing you too hard, Stanley? You could always take a break, come back and work with your father." Her voice was gentle.

"Mother, I'm freelance, it's difficult to do anything but take a break." He tried to laugh but he was growing increasingly more frustrated as he tried to get the knot right. He untied it for a second time.

His mother chuckled. "As long as it doesn't get in the way of who you truly are."

He sat up, finally having got the knot the right amount of tightness. He couldn't look at her. He had no idea who he truly was anymore. Was he just one person...or was he many people inside this one body? He didn't know for sure.

He reached out for the second loafer and pulled it on over his socked foot. He sat up again and looked at her, his palms flat on his knees. "Mom, I promise. Nothing is getting in the way of that." He gave her a weak smile and leaned down and -

On his foot was a heavy brown boot, coated with a thin layer of mud. He made a quiet choking sound and sat up quickly. "Stanley?" His mother's voice called him back and he looked up at her, eyes wide. He could tell his heart was pounding but he could barely feel it, like it was a hammer on cloth. He should be used to this, but it caught him so off guard. In front of his mother?

"Stanley? You alright?" He locked eyes with her and then looked back down.

His loafer sat untied on his foot. He let his hand fall to the laces, fingers trembling.

  
Mike dusted a chick away from his muddy boot carefully, chuckling as the little yellow and black bird chirped and ran back towards its mother. He was out in the barn, tending to the newborn chicks and the rash of eggs that awaited gathering.

“‘Aye Mikey!” His name came through the open barn door, and he turned to it, smiling. Down the path came Nick Andros, one of his friends from school. Mike set his basket down and dusted his hands off on his jeans and waved a hello.

Nick was deaf, and mostly mute, but occasionally spoke to get others’ attention. When they had met in the third grade, Mike had put all of his effort forth to learn sign language so that he might be able to communicate properly, and in turn, make a friend.

“How are you?” Mike signed, his hands still clumsy sometimes.

“Been busy,” Nick replied. “Working and classes, but the semester is almost over.” Nick had a wide smile on his mouth.

“Think you’ll pass?” Mike joked.

Nick shrugged and made a hand motion that said, “Probably.”

Mike gestured towards the inner part of the barn and Nick followed. Mike took up the basket again and went towards where the chickens roosted, 15 of them in all. Nick made quick work of helping him gather, signing over two or three eggs in each hand.

“Abby and Tom want to go to karaoke tonight, you game?” Nick said, his fingers stumbling over the letters as he tried not to drop the eggs.

Mike laughed silently. He signed back, standing up a little straighter so Nick could see his hands. “I’ve never understood your fascination with karaoke.”

Nick shrugged. “I can feel it. Plus I get to watch you all make fools of yourselves.”

“Who all is going?” Mike asked.

Nick thought a moment. “Abby, Tom, Stuart, maybe Nadine? Not too sure on her yet. She might be out seeing her man.” He rolled his eyes. “She nearly failed two classes from skipping to see him so much this semester.”

Mike shook his head. “She’s an idiot sometimes.” Nick agreed.

“So you’ll come?” He asked. His eyes were hopeful.

He hadn’t _really_ spent time with his friends in a long time. And what plans did he have anyway? All he had to do tomorrow was help his dad load up the horses to move them out to Wichita. That would still be there after a few beers and some poor singing. It might help get his mind off of...well, other things.

“Yea, I’ll go. But you have to buy me a drink, especially if you want me to go up on stage.” He nudged Nick with his elbow and he responded with a laugh, clapping Mike on the back.

  
Eddie lay sprawled on the bed, struggling to pull out of the arm restraints that held him firmly to the mattress. He had been on the verge of tears for near to two hours, but he refused to let himself cry now. Nurses were coming in and out of the room at an increasing rate, checking things on his chart, fiddling with his IV, whispering among themselves as they ignored his pleas. His stomach had been growling since late the previous night, when he had received a small dinner of hot cereal and a glass of milk but barely touched it, his appetite withered away. No one was telling him anything, and when he had awoken around ten this morning, he’d found a nurse strapping him into the restraints.

“What are you doing?” He’d said, barely awake but growing increasingly worried.

“Nothing to worry about dear, this is for your safety.” The nurse’s voice was sweet and for a brief moment Eddie was placated, but then she’d pulled tight and all movement in his wrist was stifled.

“Safety? What? I, don’t, please,” he said, his voice was getting a bit louder now as he focused. He tried pulling at the restraint that held his left wrist with his right hand and the nurse all but twisted his arm around to stop him and he cried out in pain. It had taken her very little time to restrain the second wrist.

Now he was laying here, thinking if he worked up enough sweat he might be able to slip out of the band, but so far it was just giving him an awful burn on his skin and night had come.

Dr. Gray came into the room, Sonia following close behind him, her large frame like an overbearing shadow behind the salt and pepper man. Eddie recoiled at the sight of him and tried to pull his legs up to get away. Dr. Gray put his hands out as a show of surrender, but Eddie wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the smile. He knew he had.

“Eddie, Eddie, relax - ”

“Let me out of these. Right. Now.” He was panting, trying and failing to keep his breathing steady. He could feel his throat shrinking to pinhole size and he tried to push it all away, focus on the brimming anger that was building. His mother was standing in the far corner of the room, her thumb pressed into her mouth where she was gnawing at the fingernail. She had a look of genuine worry on her face now. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look like that. It frightened him even more.

Dr. Gray laughed, a soft, sickening sound. "Eddie, Eddie, it's for your protection!"

Eddie wanted to laugh but all that came out was a choked whimper as his throat continued to close. "Protection? _My_ protection? You're trying to chop my brain up!" He looked at his mother, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she'd realize what she was putting through and stop this, stop it before he was a vegetable lying in a hospital bed. But she only stood there, chewing at her finger.

“Why are you doing this?” He said, his voice a vague whisper, eyes flitting between the doctor and his mother.

His mother took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. She may have been shutting off tears, but he couldn’t be sure.

“It’s for your safety.” Dr. Gray said, pulling Eddie’s attention back to him.

“Safety from what? What’s going on?” He asked.

Dr. Gray looked at Sonia then back. “We’ve decided that because your condition is worsening it might be best to do your surgery tomorrow. We’ve scheduled it for nine am sharp.” His face was smug and Eddie wished more than anything that one of his hands was free so he might be able to reach out and hit him. His wrist twisted against the restraint again.

“Please,” Eddie said, but it barely came out. His eyes burned with tears and he pulled back more, fingers going numb.

“Eddie it’ll help you.” His mother finally spoke and it scared him.

“You’ll be just fine, son.” Dr. Gray said, and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. Eddie recoiled.

Dr. Gray looked pointedly at Sonia and she nodded, taking a step towards the door.

“No please! Wait!” Eddie cried as the two left the room, but they didn’t turn back. He didn't hear the distinct click of the lock as the door came closed, but it didn't matter. He was trapped.

He writhed around on the bed, pulling fruitlessly at his tethers.

“Jesus Christ somebody _help_ -”

  
“ _Me_!” Bill woke up with a sharp gasp, bolting upright on the couch, the sun having already set. He could see the streetlights on, flooding the street with their false luminescence.

He felt an echo in his head, like someone was whispering to him from the shadows. Someone had been calling to him, he was sure of it. But there was no one in the room, here or not. A yawn stole out of him.

He looked at his watch. A quarter to ten. Christ, he thought, he'd fallen asleep for nearly three hours. After his meeting with Danny he'd been...distracted. His head had been swimming. So he'd come home, sat on the couch drank a beer, and he'd tried to reach out to this brother, this Eddie, but nothing had come of it. What if he was too late? Would he even know?

"Audra?" He called, but she didn't answer. She must still be at the theater, where she'd a job as a director. It didn't pay much, but she loved working with the kids. They were preparing for a show of _Anastasia_ and she'd spent many of the last few nights there going over lines and building sets.

He got up from the couch, his body aching, and went to the kitchen, grabbing a beer out of the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with the palm of his hand and sipped. He wasn't sure what he was expected to do. He found himself back on the couch, holding the beer between his two hands. He tried to focus on his breathing, the subtle in and out. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he reached out, calling.

"Eddie," He said aloud and he shook his head at how stupid his own voice sounded in the emptiness of the living room. "I don't know where you are man, but I need you to talk to me... I need you to tell me where you are... How I can help you..."

All that responded was the wind at first, and then he heard a clicking noise, far away, and his eyes snapped open.

He was standing in a cold room, lit only by a florescent lightbulb that hung over the back of the bed, his shaking fingers wrapped around the neck of the beer. At first he didn't notice the person lying there, so caught off guard by the fact that he had somehow transported himself to a completely different place. But then there he was, _he, brother_ , Eddie. He was squirming on the bed, angry and red-faced. But then his eyes fell on Bill and he stilled, and like a whisper, drained away, Bill heard him, " _Help me_."

Bill's eyes opened again and he heard his own voice, choked and on the brink of sobbing, "Oh Jesus!" He looked around his living room. "Fuck!" He said. He'd almost had it, he knew. He closed his eyes, tried to focus again, squeezing the bottle of beer so tightly in his hands he was sure he could break it with sheer force.

"Eddie, _please_ , fucking _say something_!" He said, his voice growing louder with each syllable. He pressed his eyes closed so tight that he started seeing spots, hoping that he'd hear the tell-tale rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and know he was back but he listened and waited and -

The front door opened, the sound of keys jingling making him throw himself back into the couch cushions, and he splashed beer on his pants.

"Babe? Are you still awake?" Audra's voice came from the foyer and Bill hurried to sop up some of the beer with a random sheet of paper he had sitting on the coffee table. She came into the living room, unzipping her jacket, her purse dangling from one hand.

He looked up at her and he could tell she saw something strange on his face.

"Bill? What's wrong?"

  
It was half past ten and Mike, Nick, Nadine, and Abby were sitting at a table in Brothers in downtown Lawrence, twenty miles or so from McLouth. Tom and Stuart were coming separately, so they had started drinking without them. They were sitting underneath a set of stage lights so that Nick could see and communicate with the others but still feel the bass from the speakers. Nadine had already sung a deep and sexy version of an Amy Winehouse song and Abby was waiting to sing a Blink-182 song with the other boys. Mike was on his second beer, talking with Abby and Nick as someone sang _Little Red Corvette_. Nadine was up getting another drink.

"So you're going to sing, right?" Abby signed to Mike and he laughed, Nick assuring her he would indeed be up on stage soon enough.

"Nick insisted that I go up there," Mike said, his fingers moving quickly over the words. "Did you pick a song for me?" he asked Nick.

Nick nodded, taking a sip off of his Coke and set it down so he could reply. "I did, but you won't be happy with it."

"Why do you think I won't be happy? What the hell did you pick?" Mike said.

Nick shrugged. "A song that I like to feel in my chest." Mike looked at Abby and she nodded as if saying, "Ah yes, the chest song."

A cool springtime breeze came in as the front double doors swung open and Tom and Stuart came in, holding hands. The group raised their hands in 'hello' and the two joined them. Mike felt a slight pang of envy in his stomach at the sight of Tom and Stu, so open and in love. But he buried the feeling and took another drink of his beer. They sat at the table right as Nadine came up, holding her drinks like a waitress would and setting them on the table one by one. She gave Tom and Stu a kiss on the cheek each and sat next to Abby.

"I think you're next Mikey," she said out loud, Abby telling Nick what she said. "You ready?"

  
Stan held his hand under the faucet, waiting for it to warm up. He shook the excess water off once, twice, three times, and straightened up, wiping his hands on the towel hanging by the sink. He looked himself over in the mirror, sighing. It felt like it'd been forever since he'd been able to shower, but it had only been since the day before. He'd spent most of the day with his parents and it had been exhausting. His mother had mentioned a nice girl to him, one whose mother she knew from Temple, and would he like to meet her?

He'd of course said yes, enthusiastically so, but he had never wanted something less. His mother had described her - long curly brown hair and chestnut eyes - as very beautiful and smart, having gone to Oxford for Greek literature or something like that. Stan had started tuning her out after a while. He'd only agreed to the meeting because he worried maybe his parents... _knew_. Maybe not necessarily the exact words that accompanied the desire that burned in his chest whenever he thought of...but perhaps they had an idea. And he couldn't have that.

He pulled off his pajama shirt and trousers, folded them politely and set them on the counter. He checked the water again - perfect - and he pulled the tab on the faucet, the shower head turning on to a fine spray. He stepped in under the water, letting it scald his skin.

  
Ben was laying in bed, his alarm twenty-five minutes from going off to wake him up for the day. He was staring at the ceiling, running his hand over his stomach, a little bigger, but he didn't mind. He was thinking about work, about the BBC Communications Centre, about the others, about Beverly.

He'd also been thinking of his mother. He had been thinking about the number Burke had slid over to him during their last meeting. They had met at the site where the groundbreaking for the Centre would start June 1st. He wondered how much would be leftover when he took his mother on a vacation. When he was a kid, his mother always used to talk about how she wanted to see the Grand Canyon, in the States. He wondered if, after flying out there to see it and maybe going to Disney World in Florida or something, if he'd have enough to put her up in a new flat that was in a safer part of the city, bigger, with wall-length windows.

Far away in the back of his mind, he heard a light thumping beat, but he wasn't sure _exactly_ where it was coming from.

  
The hotel was too cold, and Beverly hadn't been able to sleep for nearly two hours. She'd been tossing and turning, bunching the blankets up around her feet and under her chin, pulled her legs up to her chest, opened the window to let the warm night blow into the room and yet for some reason she could not get warm. So, wide awake now, she'd pulled on some thick wool socks, some heavy combat boots she'd bought in the first shop she'd seen in the square, slipped out of the hotel and out onto the city sidewalk.

It was quiet now, and she put on her headphones, lighting a cigarette.

  
Richie was stumbling out of a nightclub, someone else's cigarette taste on his tongue and he pulled one out so that he could simultaneously enjoy. His glasses were coated with sweat and he pulled them off to wipe them clean on his equally sweat-soaked tank top. Somewhere behind him, Peter was singing a song he'd never heard before loudly, tripping through the alleyway with a girl under his arm. She was joining him in the song, but she didn't really know the words.

Richie was letting himself pull farther ahead of them, reaching the end of the alley and pulling out where the street was. It was still rather quiet, aside from the people still coming out of the club in handfuls.

He looked at the sky, which was starting to lighten with the coming sunrise, and he wondered, if maybe, wherever they all were, if they could see it coming too.

  
"Up next, is Mike Hanlon, singing _What's Up_ , come on up Mike!" said the DJ and Mike looked at Nick, his brows furrowed.

" _What's Up?_ What the hell is that?" Mike said, and Nick just laughed,

"You know the words, trust me."

"Do you want me to sing it for you?" Abby asked Nick, but he shook his head.

"I'll just watch." He said.

Mike took one more drink of his beer and to the hoots and hollers of the others, Nick clapping loudly. He went up on the stage, the lights overhead nearly blinding him and he squinted at the screen in front of him. He was pleased to see that the only people paying attention were his friends, Tom and Stuart holding hands and beaming up at him, and Nick, Abby, and Nadine, saying something he couldn't see and looking at him.

When the first bits of the guitar started, Mike almost glared at them but the sounds of their cheering and laughter were drowned out by the music and talking of the other people. He did know this song, even if he didn't know the actual name of it, or even who it was by. He wasn't concerned with sounding good, even though he had a lovely voice - according to his mother - if anyone would be able to hear him it'd be an outright miracle. So, he just sang.

" _Twenty-five years and my life is still, trying to get up that great big hill of hope, for a destination_ ," He shook his head and he made a vulgar gesture at the group and he heard hollering vaguely over the other sounds that filled the hall.

" _I realized quickly when I knew I should_ ," Stan ran his hands over his hair, his voice coming out in a whisper.

" _That the world was made up of this brotherhood_ ," The song had come out of nowhere, but Ben didn't mind.

" _Of man_ ," Beverly fidgeted with her headphone, smiling at what shuffle had brought up.

Richie looked up and down the street, taking a drag off of the cigarette. " _For whatever that means_."

Eddie rolled over in his hospital bed as much as he could, tears still threatening to stream down his face. He squinted to see the night sky out the thin space between the two curtains covering the window, feeling sleep coming. He was speaking words to a song he didn't know. " _And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed,"_

" _Just to get it all out_ ," Bill was sitting in bed now, watching the quiet rise and fall of Audra as she slept.

" _What's in my head_ ," Beverly looked at the skyline. " _And I, I am feeling,_ "

" _A little peculiar._ " Pulling back the covers, Ben got up.

" _And so I wake in the morning_ ," Stan turned so his back was to the stream now, his voice growing louder.

" _And I step outside_ ," Richie shoved his hand in his pocket, looking at the ground.

" _And I take a deep breath_ ," Bill leaned his head against the headboard.

" _And I get real high, and I_ ," Eddie whispered to his pillow.

" _Scream from the top of my lungs, what's going on?"_ Beverly leaned against the railing over the Emperor's Canal, her sweet voice floating off over the breeze.

Mike tried to get into it now, practically screaming. " _And I said, hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah, yeah, I said hey! What's going on!_ "

Ben smiled softly to himself as he flipped the bathroom light on and went to the mirror. " _And I said, hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah, yeah,_ "

" _I said hey_!" Richie said, his voice loud in the near empty street. Peter didn't hear him though, he was kissing the girl against the wall of one of the brick buildings.

" _What's going on?_ " Mike said, and he was sure he saw Tom and Abby's mouths move with the words. He was laughing during the next part, the soft, " _Oh, oh, ooh_ ," sounding nearly silly over the speakers, even through everything else, when he felt the air suddenly change. He turned his head just so, and there he was. He felt his face break in a smile, and he could nearly cry, his heart swelling in his chest as it began to beat harder just by looking at him, as confused as he was. He didn't even notice at first that he was stark naked and sopping wet, his hair still keeping its curl somehow.

The speaker was playing the backup vocals on the second bit of " _Oh, ooh_ ," and Stan didn't even care that he was technically standing completely exposed in front of a hundred people he didn't know, because as soon as it appeared, they were together, alone in his shower, the water hitting his back and he was staring, wide-eyed and smiling at him, completely clothed, and the idea struck him as funny and he giggled. Mike still held the microphone and he could feel mist coming off of this other body, this other person and then he was in both places, on stage and also in that long clawfoot shower, and he couldn't break his gaze. Stan didn't know for sure if he was feeling the same, but his heart was pounding and he couldn't look away from the other's dark eyes.

" _And I try_ ," Eddie said. " _Oh my god, do I try,_ "

" _I try all the time_ ," Richie kicked at a rock on the sidewalk.

" _In this institution_." Beverly watched as a few raindrops hit the surface of the canal.

" _And I pray_ ," Stan crossed his arms, almost instinctively, but he didn't look away. " _Oh my god, do I pray._ "

Mike took a careful step closer, feeling exposed himself even though he wasn't and he saw goosebumps rise on the other's skin. " _I pray every single day_ ,"

" _For a revolution_." Ben used his shaving cream can as a makeshift microphone, eyes closed and belting the words he barely knew.

Bill turned onto his side, whispering so as not to wake Audra. " _And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed, just to_ ,"

" _Get it all out what's in my head, and I_ ," Eddie sang, eyes beginning to flutter closed. " _I am feeling_ ,"

" _A little peculiar_." Bill said, settling his head down on the pillow.

" _And so I wake in the morning and I step outside_ ," Richie was singing full-volume now.

" _And I take a deep breath and I_ ," Beverly inhaled on her cigarette.

" _Get real high and I_ ," Ben rinsed the razor off in the sink.

" _Scream from the top of my lungs, what's going on_?" Bill said, his eyelids were beginning to droop, but he wasn't tired.

Stan took a step forward and let his arms fall to his sides again, reaching ever so slightly out to touch Mike's arms and they sang together, Mike unable to hold the smile back now. " _And I said hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah yeah, I said hey. What's going on?_ " Mike's head was bent low, Stan's turning up as if to meet his, their eyes merely inches apart now but they barely noticed that their lips were still saying in gentle whispers, " _And I said hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah, yeah, I said hey. What's going on?_ " Stan's eyes fell to Mike's lips, he didn't know why, he couldn't help it, he just wondered for a moment what they might feel like on his. Mike wasn't sure if he was meaning to, but he was leaning his head down, and his fell closed for just a moment.

Stan was alone in the shower once more, his hands touching nothing but air, the water growing cold.

  
" _Oh, oh, ooh_ ," Bill's mouth was moving silently, and he realized he must have dozed off, but in the next moment, he was wide awake again, but he wasn't in his bed, the sheets felt too scratchy and he couldn't move his arms. He couldn't move his arms? He looked down.

He was wearing a hospital gown and his wrists were bound in heavy straps. _Holy shit_ , he thought, panic starting to seep in. _Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit_. And then he realized. _Eddie_!

He looked around the room for something, anything, anyone, who might be able to help him, but there was no one. Okay, Bill, he thought. Don't panic.

He twisted his wrist in the left buckle a little and realized that there was some give, maybe his wrists were slightly smaller than Eddie's? He didn't know. He pulled a little, the restraint moving little under the effort and he made his hand as small as he could, folding it in on itself. He twisted and jerked until he felt his hand begin to slide out and then with a soft _pop_ it came out and Bill's heart jumped into his throat. He squeezed his hand opened and closed and gathered his focus once more.

Not as carefully as he should have, he ripped the IV out of his right arm, pain searing from the place it had just vacated and he let it drop, a clear liquid dripping out of the needle. He made quick work of undoing the second strap and then his arms were free. He got up from the bed and his legs buckled out from under him. "Shit," he whispered as his knees hit the ground and he willed himself to get up, get up, just get the _fuck_ up. He finally got his footing and he hurried to the door, which he found, thankfully, unlocked. He thanked whatever god might exist that it was, and as quietly as he could, opened the door.

The hallway was empty, even the nurses' station deserted for some reason. He slipped out the doorway and looked left, then right. To his left was more hallway and to his right was a set of double doors that led somewhere else, maybe out. But he could see through the shatterproof windows in each door that just on the other side was a pair of elevators and his heart caught in his throat once more. Silently, he moved down the hall and through the double doors, sprinting the last few feet to the elevators, where he hit the down button.

He could hear footsteps coming down the corridor that led right into this one and he felt a burn on his tongue of fear, willing the elevator to get there faster. After what seemed like an eternity, the doors slid open and Bill went inside, hitting the 'close door' button quickly and then they were closing.

  
He sat up in bed, heart ramming around in his chest and he looked around. Audra was still sound asleep next to him and he realized. "Oh my god!" He said, his hand going to his mouth to cover a smile that only he could see. "Oh my fucking god!" He had done it.

He had helped Eddie escape.

  
Eddie shivered in the nightgown and his leg was twitching nervously as he watched the lights on the floors go down until it reached the one, which had a little star next to it. When the doors opened, he took a tentative step out, unsure of what he could do now. To the left were the doors out. He just had to make it past the front desk, where a cute nurse with short hair was talking on the phone. "Fuck." He said, his voice cracking.

"Eddie!" He heard and he nearly screamed but when he looked, his heart stopped pounding as hard. There was Danny Torrance, the nurse, held out and ready a wheelchair, as if he knew he was going to be there. Danny had a mischievous grin on his face, almost like he was having fun with this. Eddie looked at him incredulously, but quickly sat in the chair anyways, pulling the gown down over his knees.

"There's a taxi outside, get in it." Danny hissed, pushing the wheelchair slowly and deliberately.

"And go where?" Eddie replied, his own voice a husk.

"Home. Then far, far away from here." Danny nodded at the nurse, who barely spared him a passing glance at first. "Over the border if you can. You have brothers in America. Find them."

"Brothers, I?"

"Excuse me!" The nurse behind the counter said and Eddie winced. It was all over. "Where are you going?"

But Danny was picking up speed. "Uh, just out for a smoke break!" Danny replied, his feet hitting the tile hard.

"Excuse me, there isn't smoking on this side of the, excuse me, _sir_!" Eddie didn't hear the rest, wind was rushing in his ears as the sliding doors opened like magic in front of him and indeed a small orange-ish yellow car was waiting right on the curb, the driver's hand out the window with a cigarette. He tossed it as he saw them approach.

Danny all but threw Eddie out of the wheelchair and opened the backdoor of the taxi, ushering him inside. Eddie jumped in and the door was promptly slammed in his face, but he turned nonetheless. Behind Danny, he could see the nurse running out and waving her hands.

"Forest Hill, please! Go!" He cried and the driver made a grumbling sound but put the car in drive anyhow, pulling away. The nurse came up beside Danny, who had the same smile on his face as he watched Eddie pull away. She was yelling something at him and then grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back inside.

Eddie finally turned in his seat, heart beating rapidly, sweat having drawn on his brow. Over the sound of the taxi moving into late night traffic, he could barely hear the radio but there was something so familiar about it.

"Hey can you turn that up, please?" He asked.

The driver looked briefly over his shoulder, but did as he was told, turning the knob over until the music was loud enough to hear.

" _And I said, hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah, yeah. I said hey, what's going?_ "

"What's this song called, do you know?" It was the one he'd had stuck in his head for the better part of two hours. How fucking uncanny.

"Uh, I think it's _What's Up_. 4 Non Blondes." The driver's burly voice replied.

Eddie sat back in his seat, listening to the song as it floated out of the speakers, like it was coming across fields and mountains and an ocean. It was as they pulled onto the highway, other taxis and graveyard shift headlights joining them, that he realized he hadn't grabbed his inhaler. But for the first time in maybe forever, he didn't need it. 


End file.
